


Playing To Win

by springandbysummerfall



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Comedy, Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-06-25 20:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 77,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15648741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springandbysummerfall/pseuds/springandbysummerfall
Summary: It's no secret that Dr. Briefs loathes her neighbor. But after her highly classified research is stolen, the two become unlikely partners in an increasingly treacherous spiral to get it back. With every day forced to work together, the stakes—for the project, and for their feelings—get higher.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I know some people don't bother reading author's notes, but I need to have explained what you're about to read regardless of whether you read it or not.
> 
> This is the love story of two neighbors who hate each other. You're going to notice some things about this story that may disarm you: the tense and the style. I really wanted to write something present tense, in a direct, more journalistic writing style than I normally use. I wanted the tone to be simple and objective, but close and intimate that way. I wanted to work on my writing skill, to exercise the basics, to bare the foundation, to uncover the strongest, barest bones of the characters and the movement of events, especially as I came up against wall after wall while writing this coming chapter of Accidental Intimacy. I just desperately wanted to feel creative and accomplished again. 
> 
> Some of the content of this story is willfully obtuse, like the nature of Bulma's project, to make room for the fun of it. So just go with it. It started out as a one-shot and evolved into a novel that I've refused to share until it was completed, to both our benefits. Yes: this is completed. I don't have to hear anyone's complaints that a story hasn't updated quickly enough (I've read many in the last year), and you actually get the end of a story. I'll be releasing this one in installments rather than dumping it on you, though, for fear that it will otherwise be overlooked. Listen, I had to work on this before I continued Accidental Intimacy, because I kept wanting to mix up the characterizations, and because I was so scared that if I left this to work on AI again, I'd never finish either. So for those of you who are frustrated with me about my writing turnaround, I'm trying to be a good writer by keeping these two stories separate and therefore good. Please remember we are not machines that churn out quality fan fiction. There's a creative process. I've been writing since 2011 and I'm still at it. I'm always trying to stay on the ride, and you profit.
> 
> This is easily one of my most favorite things I've written, and I want to tell you why. It's in the beauty of writing the characters like they're a bickering old married couple before they even realize they're dumb for each other. It started by jotting down snippets of dialogue that seemed better suited to tumblr snark, and then I built the scenes around that and connected them all together with two threads: the ever elusive research project, and the deepening, complicating feelings of these two blockheads. This story is nothing but full on BV interaction. There's hardly a scene that happens without them together. This is Trollma at her best, and just dripping with arguments and sexual tension. That is what you're in for if you endure past this author's note. I asked myself: What are their worst qualities, and how can I make them redeeming? What would it look like to amplify the ugliest traits of our characters—arguably the funnest and funniest—and how do they complement each other? How do I humanize them? How do I gradually peel them like an onion? I also considered an inside out universe: What if Vegeta had all the friends, and Bulma was the outsider? How would Vegeta court Bulma if he'd already been humbled, with his post-Buu cool? 
> 
> One thing that can get frustrating about writing BV are the ceaseless conflicts because of an unnecessary lack of communication (inherent in the romance genre, period). So I wanted to be have them brutal and honest with each other from the get-go and see how that might work. She doesn't like his attitude? She lets him know. He doesn't agree with her choices? He's going to make that apparent. There would be nowhere for unintentional drama to hide. I also wanted to imagine them like they were real people for once, and not cartoon characters. I submerged myself more than I ever have in an imaginary world, hunting down pictures of actors and artists that resemble them, songs and song lyrics that embody them, and really getting inside each sentence, feeling it out, determining if it works even on the most micro scale. What I'm getting at is the magnitude of work and time that went into this. I'm talking stealing away at work to write notes, getting up early to type, stopping in the middle of the grocery aisle to scribble dialogue, typing this while the oven timer is screaming at me and dinner burns. All of this labor and I won't receive a dime. So please be understanding with us fandom-artist-types. 
> 
> I'd like to think you guys get it—you just find that other person who gets what a shitty human you are and it's best friends for life. That's these two, this time. Us, too, maybe? I hope you love it as much as I do.

The air is depressingly sweltering into early evening. Mature maples and birch mark time from one end of the street to the other, branches a dense canopy over the street. Their riotously coloring leaves droop in the heat. Summer has stayed past its welcome, and a shroud of humidity blankets the city.

At ten past five, cars pull up outside after a days work. This quiet city block nestled in the west side burrough is populated by a diverse demographic, by doctors and college students, entrepreneurs and retirees. It's a stones throw away from the bustle of the big city, but still contained in its heart. Each dated bungalow boasts its own narrow front path, which diverges from the sidewalk at the street curb and leads up to the porch steps. The homes huddle close together and lack driveways. Such is the sacrifice of city dwelling.

Smack dab in the middle of the block, two houses share an unfenced yard and one grand oak, which currently smothers the grass in acorns.

The house on the right has been described as “cute,” “charming,” and “well-kept, especially compared to the other house.” A treasured flower garden hugs both sides of the front path. Roses dangle heavily from their stems and coneflowers bounce in the breeze. The porch is swept clean and boasts a wicker patio chair and table, atop which sits a lush, potted fern. The grass is thick, emerald, and neatly trimmed. The front door and shutters gleam a cheery coral. The house will glow cozily as night draws its cloak over the city.

On the left, the neighboring house is in a much more sorry state. A gutter hangs sadly from its eaves. An old arbor sags against the oak, choked with vines. The grass is long enough to have fallen over with its own weight. The home badly needs a new coat of paint. It lets everyone know by spitting peeled paint chips on the ground. The aged yellow paint on the front door imitates the sophisticated pallor of cigarette smoke stains.

Every weekday, the occupants of these two houses arrive home at the same time. They walk up their path at five fifteen, coming from the opposite direction. Their heels strike the wood porch steps—three steps in all. They each slide their key into the tumblers on their front door. And, without fail, they each insult the other until one of them has clearly won or lost, and then slam the door. With relish, they do it all over again the next day.

Today is a Tuesday. Heels rapping the sidewalk with a confident, assured gait, Bulma Briefs makes her way up the front path, the curvy black sports car behind her blinking its headlights in affirmation as she thumbs the key fob. Her red heels and lipstick are a jolt of color in this dismal heat, a rebellion. Her heels on the porch steps are authoritative. As she steps under the low, gabled roof, her coiffed hair dampening with the humidity, movement catches her eye, and she looks left. Her eyes narrow.

Her neighbor's eyes flick over her and his mouth pulls down in disgust like she is something stuck to his shoe. No, worse. It's a look that is absolutely dismissive, contemptuous, and judgmental, and the extra wallop of accomplishing it without even bothering to look her in the eye.

He's wearing his usual white t-shirt, which strains over round shoulders and a broad chest and which falls loosely around his lean waist. He's pulling his keys from his pocket with a muscled forearm.

She scoffs at him, a little indignant puff of air, for just daring to be alive.

Her neighbor's head falls back on his shoulders, completely cool and unaffected, and this time his eyes meet hers. The look brooks no question of how he feels about her: it's a complete insult. It's utterly apathetic to her existence, abjectly so superior to her that he can't be bothered to feel any pity or annoyance at all by his burden of having her as a neighbor.

“The earth hasn't opened and hell hasn't beckoned you back yet?” His voice rolls, smooth and unhurried.

“I'm their queen,” she returns, inserting the keys into the door knob. “I can go as I please.” The woman slants a look at him. “You're Hell's waste disposal guy. You pick up trash on the side of the street.”

His face tightens, but his voice is lazy. “One of these days, I'm going to have a lot of fun tying you up and gagging you and leaving you somewhere no one can find you.”

She leans her hip against the doorjamb. “Typical you: a lot of talk and no follow through. Is it hard being so incompetent?”

“It's hard to take your comebacks seriously when you're dressed like a movie extra for Casablanca.”

Her face turns stormy and a blush darkens her cheeks. “There's nothing wrong with my outfit. This is a Louis Voution skirt and Wanolo heels. I have a sophisticated aesthetic!”

He smirks. It's as close to a smile as the guy gets: cruel, lopsided, smug. If she fell and lay bleeding out on the sidewalk, he would just point and laugh. “Every time you open your mouth you just make yourself look dumber.”

“Please. My intellect is atmospherically, _egregiously_ above yours, as well as my grace, poise, and class.” She clasps her hands together, looks skyward, and pretends to pray. “Thank you god, thou who art in heaven, for making me so much better than my neighbor.”

He is half-lidded with cunning confidence despite her, a trickster in repose. “At least I don't sound like I swallowed a dictionary.”

“Would you like me to talk real slow so that you might understand me?”

“I know what I'd like to do to you,” he croons through his teeth.

From inside his house, a phone rings. It rips a hole in the mood and lets all the air out. He sniffs and turns back to his door, his hand turning the knob.

He's suddenly bored with this conversation. He's going to pretend he wins just because he gets to leave first. “Those heels belong in last year's trash, alongside your dignity,” he inserts right before his door closes behind him.

“The only thing you'll find in last year's trash is your hairline,” she calls.

The woman's eyes narrow into slits as he ignores her and steps inside. “Asshole,” she says under her breath, and throws open her own door. But she smiles when she takes a step in, because she knows she's won this round.

Their doors slam closed at the same time.

* * *

 

Bulma Briefs has made many mistakes, but one of her most defining ones was trying to make friends with her neighbor.

It's a chilly spring day, and a torrent of rain has been pounding them all week, making the world mud. Her coffee mugs clink against the wood cupboards as rain taps the window and she puts the remainder of her dishes away. She jets to the grocery store after emptying her last moving box, and when she returns, the clouds peel back, freeing the sunshine for the first time in days. Bulma is not superstitious, but she smiles at the good omen.

Arms hanging with bags, she notices a figure shadowing the front door of the old house on the left. He's a powerful silhouette in his doorway. Masculine. Mysterious. Within best friend radius. And she is curious.

Tragically, Bulma is cursed. She's afflicted with the need to be outgoing and friendly in a city that shuns her type. She has many friends, and, before her divorce, had often hosted a party on the first Friday of every month. She is talkative and beautiful and leads a fascinating life, so no one minds much that she is also bossy and opinionated. Bulma's moods are capricious. It's part of her charm. She's fussy, but understanding. She's unapologetic, but giving. She's forgiven of this in the way that beautiful women are, but also because people are a little scared of her.

Bulma Briefs can be intense, especially when it comes to her work. Her obsessiveness, paired with her compulsion to solve every puzzle placed even catty-cornered to her lap, quickly becomes a recipe for a magnetic woman who is only emotionally available when it suits her. It had cost her a previous marriage, and despite her beauty queen looks and popularity, she can be kind of an egghead. Her kind of intellect is, of course, married to self-imposed exile and oddity. She may be insistent and ambitious, energetic and bold, but she may also go days without speaking to anyone, invested so deeply in her most recent research. Her profession only enables her. A high-level engineer for the Defense Department, she enjoys the freedom to experiment and compose the most limit-breaking inventions. Everything she touches is stamped classified, everything she conceives a success. She'd never met anything she couldn't figure out, take apart, and put back together again. She is prodigally curious and used to getting what she wants.

And with her neighbor manifests another object for her inquisitive mind.

Her neighbor stills in the doorway, perhaps sensing and tensing at the feeling of sudden doom and friendliness emanating from his new neighbor. He turns.

The weight of his gaze startles her. He sees right through her. Every sin, every insecurity of hers, on display. Shrewd, black eyes. Thick black hair, straight brows, and a black tee, sleeves rolled up. He has high, sharp cheekbones that are both modelesque and fiercely masculine, but lips that look to be a perpetual grimace, straight and pulled down at a corner. Not pretty-boy handsome, she feels, not inviting, but temptingly unorthodox, like he's built different and her brain was trying to work out how. Like she's got to squint her eyes to see him right.

His eyes flick over her, utterly aloof, leaning against his doorjamb in a relaxed confidence that could never be characterized as a slouch. He is powerfully built, with a straight spine. He is the antithesis of a hero, like a photo with all the colors inverted. Instead of slick blonde hair and a charming smile, it's black and jagged and he never smiles. And while he's got the sulky, pretty mouth and strong jawline of a comic book hero, he can only grimace or frown. Instead of a soft, giving look a caped crusader would give an old woman after saving her purse, her neighbor's gaze is laser sharp, as if, if it were up to him, the old woman would burst into flames, a pile of black ash, and blow away. His face, like any hero's, is perfectly symmetrical. He has strong, straight brows, and despite his surly attitude, a nose that doesn't look like it's been broken time and time again, but is instead straight and proud. Handsome isn't a superlative Bulma would use to describe this man, but just enigmatic enough to be bait on a hook to lure genius women who don't know how to leave well enough alone. There is just something about him, something that sucks all the breath out of Bulma's lungs. Even relaxing into the doorjamb with a t-shirt and sweatpants, he oozes danger and control. His arms stretch the limits of his sleeves. _Musculi biciptis, triceps brachii, musculus deltoideus,_ she thinks.

She is the first to come up for air. “Hello!” She deposits her grocery bags on the stairs so that she can wave and puts on her biggest smile. She knows how to wow. “I'm Bulma Briefs. I'm your new neighbor.”

Her neighbor stretches his neck, knuckles under his chin as he angles his head, and pops it. He takes a long look at her. He doesn't try to hide it.

And then he makes a noise that, paired with a little jump of his shoulders, can only be assumed is a scoff, and slips inside his home.

It takes too long before Bulma realizes she is just standing there gaping, staring at where he used to be.

“Fine, don't be neighborly,” she mutters.

She is not deterred. Bulma hasn't met anyone she can't win over.

The second time Bulma Briefs encounters her neighbor, she is convinced last time was a misremembering. A glitch, even. The coding of the universe had thrown an error; the programmer had patched it. The programmer, of course, is on her side.

At the end of her front path, Bulma is having a lovely conversation with Mrs. Sotomayer, the resident retired teacher on the block. Every morning, Mrs. Sotomayer walks her tiny, fluffy dog. She is the sweetest elderly woman that Bulma soon learns is also an unrepentant gossip.

It's a sunny Saturday morning, and Bulma hears a door click behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she watches her neighbor cut down his stairs—like a knife ripping a jagged scar in the universe, a dementor whose sole purpose is to drain happiness from the world.

Bulma's eyes follow him as he sweeps down his front walkway. For just a second, their eyes meet. His are cold and hawkish. Then he's looking away, as if her existence isn't even worth recognizing, and turning down the sidewalk.

Mrs. Sotomayer stares at Bulma with a mixture of horror and pity. “Oh, honey.” She shakes her head gravely. “No.”

A scowl darkens Bulma's face. Bulma doesn't know the meaning of no. She doesn't give up. She is competitive to a fault, and her neighbor is practially egging her on.

The third and final time, he buries any affection for him under the roses Bulma was planting along her front path.

It's the beginning of summer, and the dog days are already upon them and determined to stay. She wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm and hurries to plant the final bushes before the heat leaps into the triple digits. Sweat creeps down her chest, carves a path down her neck, rivulets staining her turquoise hair blue. Her water bottle sits empty, but she's so close to being done that she refuses to go inside to refill. She clasps the bottle, stares at it forlornly, and then tosses it back into the grass stubbornly. She spoons soil over the last of the roots when she hears a door open and close. She looks up.

Her neighbor stops in the middle of his porch. He always looks like he is coming or going to the gym. She isn't even sure he has a job. He arrives home every day at 5:15 like she does, but he carries a duffle bag and walks everywhere. Does he walk to work, somewhere close? Does he take the bus? Poorness would explain the condition of his house. It would explain why he is grumpy all the time. Although, he doesn't act like the world's beaten him down. No. He's defiant, proud. He looks like the baddie's muscle in a spy film, but with the baddie's calculating eyes. Surprise—at the end, he's actually the mastermind. Crime could be her neighbor's profession. Well, Bulma doesn't discriminate. Bulma is friends with many different people, and thus lives a very rich life. It doesn't matter how bad he is, because she is determined to get him to like her.

“Hello,” she calls carefully. She's hesitant, but she quickly smothers it. She can't let him smell fear. She would project only confidence, because she's willing to take to the bank that he's the kind of man that respects it.

She stands. Sweat tickles as it slides like a finger down her breasts to dampen the space between her breasts. She refuses to acknowledge them or any other weakness. Her fists plant on her hips. She smiles, showing a lot of teeth. “It's hot today!”

It isn't her wittiest opener, but it would have to do. It was as neutral as it got: a comment on the weather. She's banking on this strategy. He can't slap that rejoinder down; it goes against human nature to not reciprocate an observation about the weather. Bulma has him in the bag. Get ready to be one of the many trophies on my mantle, she thinks.

To her surprise, the man ambles over, taking the stairs light on his feet, and then moseys straight for her. He's holding his own bottle of water, his duffle bag in hand, which pats against his thigh. He stops a few feet from her. It's the closest they've ever been. The heat doesn't seem to bother him at all, and she frowns. She squints under the glare of the pressing summer sun, heading for its apex at noon, baring down on her pale shoulders.

Her mouth ticks down at the corner when he smirks at her.

Then he uncaps his water, tilts back his head, and drinks.

She watches his thick neck move as he swallows in big gulps. The bottle mouth against his lips, as he watches her under long, damp lashes. A few drops escape, scattering down the column of his throat. She goes wide eyed watching him crumple the bottle in his fist. He levels her with a scorchingly malicious smirk, and then pivots away. Her hands fist when he tosses the bottle—still half-full of precious life ambrosia—at his trashcan, which still hasn't been moved from the curb. The bottle smacks dully against the side and clatters to the sidewalk.

There would be a crater that could be seen from space, made by the impact of the urgency of her revenge. It had originally been a game she'd been playing with herself. How do I trick the grumpy neighbor into liking me? Now the game has changed. Now the stakes are high. Now she must beat her neighbor at his own game.

Later that week, the hot weather has conjured up a spurt of thick rain clouds, and the world as they knew it is gone. The new one is soaked; they are halfway to Water World. Small-scale rivers forge paths along the street curbs while sewer gratings can't diffuse it fast enough. Bulma's car wipers move, batting away the torrential downpour uselessly. She travels slow down her street, the radio a dull hum. Then she sees him. Walking home under a black umbrella, at exactly 5:14.

Palm flat against the wheel, she turns the wheel slightly to the right. Her wheels dig into the puddle gathering in the curb and slosh water all over the single person on the sidewalk. With a smug, contained smile, Bulma parks the car in front of her house. One red heel plants on the street, and then, gracefully, Bulma swings out of the car, unfolding the umbrella in a single motion and shutting her car door with a benevolent sweep of her hand. Then she turns to him.

Her neighbor stands there, sopping wet, glaring at her.

Bulma twirls her umbrella and smiles, showing a lot of teeth. She winks, and then saunters up her front path.

They had fallen into the cracks of hell, into a kindergarten classroom, an asylum.

He had lobbed the first grenade in their suburban war.

She would win it.

* * *

 

The clink of glasses and conversation drifts out the open windows and into the night. Music and laughter murmur from the backyard, the softly glowing string of lights a curtain that insulates the party from the night.

Bulma steps out from behind the privacy fence, shutting the gate with a click. Gripping a trash bag, she heads for the trash bin on the side of her house when she catches two men in black standing at the end of her neighbor's front walkway.

Bulma slows, listening closely. Bulma is an unabashed snoop, and these men are right here in her snooping territory. The two men talk to each other without bothering to pitch their voices low. They think they're alone. They're big, scary guys. Despite that they're in the middle of a war, Bulma feels like maybe she should warn her neighbor.

She's taking a step forward when the man himself steps out from the shadows of his porch. He takes the stairs easily, closing the distance between himself and the men. Her neighbor's voice is quieter, authoritative. Bulma squints as she strains to hear. He points down the street. His words are unintelligible from this distance, but while the two big guys seem on edge, her neighbor isn't worried. He's collected and calm, although calm isn't the right word for someone who's always so alert. He seems confident he can handle any problem. He's talking to them with the tone she'd imagine a warlord would have, with complete faith in his strategic decisions and his own importance to the world's continued spinning. It's smooth, cultured, and not at all what she was expecting when they first met. Her dastardly neighbor deserves onion breath and toothless gums and bulbous eyes, but instead life is unfair, and the asshole is handsome.

And then the men in black are sliding their massive frames into an unmarked car and pulling away. Bulma forgets she's gawking out in the open until her neighbor turns to head back up his walkway, a hand in his pocket. Instead of molding into the shadows, Bulma's shirt, pristine white, gives her away. His eyes land on her and he halts. He does not look happy to see her.

Bulma stiffens, and with irritated aplomb, tosses the trash bag into her trash can, no longer concerned that anyone will hear her. She folds her arms over her chest and marches over there.

He doesn't take his eyes off of her. She makes the trek with bone-deep knowing that she's in someone's crosshairs and their finger is on the trigger. That laser vision is 100% focused on her, and it's enough to leave a woman shaken. He doesn't scare her, but she's kind of scaring herself. A little voice of reason in the back of her head asks her what the hell she's doing. Why not just turn her back on him and head back for the party? Why bother instigating him at all?

“Not surprised at all to see you socializing with villains,” she says, pulling up to him. This is now the closest they've ever been. Their front doors had always seemed so far away, like two warring countries, founded on opposing ideals, divided by an invisible but unbreachable wall. Now they're just a few feet away, and for no good reason at all. She doesn't know why she's throwing out perfectly good rules of war, but whereas the beggar prince next door seems all self-control, stringing out his hostility with patience and precision, Bulma has none. She's impulsive and emotional. It was her most tiresome trait, her ex-husband would have complained.

Her neighbor up close is scary. It's not the way he dresses—he's almost always in the most unremarkable, casual athletic wear, a cotton tee and fitted sweatpants—but in some kind of primal knowing of predator versus prey. He doesn't even try to hide that he's not human. In the dark, his judgmental glares pack even more punch. His nose is a straight angle that turns up just slightly at the end. It's actually a very nice nose.

It's a beautiful night. The humidity has evaporated and there's a breeze that picks up, caressing them in a relaxed rhythm. For work, her hair is usually set with curlers at the ends and around the front—her “Hollywood hair,” her friends call it—but today it's straight and clutched at her nape, and the breeze blows wayward strands into her face.

Her neighbor finally deigns her with a reply, as if he's thought on it for awhile. “Your hair looks like shit today.”

Bulma is offended to her core. This man is the devil suited up in man's skin.

He seems pleased as cream, as if he's been studying her and knew that one would hit home.

“At least I've been invited to a party,” she bites back. It sounds lame once she's said it.

“I'd rather die than go anyway.”

“We'd rather die than have you there.”

His gaze is typically heavy and critical, a canny scrutiny taking place behind his eyes at all times. But at her remark, the weight lightens a little. “So you've added eavesdropping to your repertoire?” His voice is sharp, but his lip crooks up at the corner. He moves with the dangerous confidence of someone who understands himself at all times. What is that like? Bulma can't decide day to day what she's going to have for breakfast.

“I wasn't eavesdropping,” she balks. She cannot stand him. “I was taking my trash out. And by the way, your grass is outrageous,” she condemns. “You really shut cut it. I'm sure it violates some HOA rule. I'll make sure to bring it up at the next meeting.”

“Try me,” he says, and his teeth gleam in the dark.

“I''ll pass,” she breezes. Lets it sink in. “And here I was, going to warn you that strange men were loitering outside your door.”

“Don't bother.”

“I won't.”

“Good.”

They are seconds away from blowing a raspberry at the other. Bulma takes a big breath through her nose. She realizes she hasn't been breathing normally since they'd started arguing.

There's an awkward pause, but it's unfinished, like neither of them is ready to turn and leave.

It's a leap, but she takes it. “It's too bad you're such a terrible person that I hate.” She twists a little, gesturing behind her. “I could grab you a beer so that you don't even have to socialize.”

“I'm not a drinker.”

“Not even on special occasions?”

“This isn't a special occasion.”

Bulma plants her knuckles on her hips and throws her shoulders back. It's the I-mean-business pose that she utilizes at work, and she's hoping it works its magic here. “Is it too impolite to ask who those big scary guys were, if they weren't planning on dastardly deeds? There's no way you have friends. As a member of the neighborhood watch, I really should be informed.”

“It's absolutely boorish and unrefined of you to pry into my personal life. Though unsurprising. Also, you're not a part of the neighborhood watch.”

“You're up to no good, aren't you?”

He sinks his hands into his pockets and doesn't answer. Despite that he likes pushing all her buttons, he looks most content in this moment just letting her hang. Bulma wonders on the kind of man who is so grumpy all the time that him easing into a neutral expression gives the impression that he's happy. Weirdly, it's a good look on him.

She doesn't know it yet—if she did, she'd be shrieking—but she doesn't want this to end. She has to know more. She leaps. “You must work out a lot?”

It's a searching, small-talk question that normal people could use but they cannot, and one that she immediately regrets. It's cannon fodder; she's just given him ammunition to use against her. The bottom drops out from under her.

His eyebrow wings, but he's pleased as punch, savoring her pain, her panic, like it's a drink from under an umbrella on the beach. His dark eyes seem to crinkle at the corners even as he doesn't crack a smile. “Are you coming on to me? Are you _objectifying_ me?” This time he smirks. “I really shouldn't be surprised. But you're always sinking to new lows.”

She can't help it; her mouth gapes. He always gets the best of her. “Are you suggesting that I look at you like....” She can't even finish, and his smirk ratchets up further. “I would never,” she's declaring, aghast. “You're so beneath me I don't even recognize you as human.”

“You're truly depraved—”

“Wow, so many polysyllabic words out of your mouth today—”

“—and I am deeply disturbed by your sexual harassment—”

“What, did you eat a dictionary?”

“—and I'll definitely be bringing that up at the homeowner's association meeting.”

She is pretty certain the HOA is getting sick of seeing them. At this stage, HOA meetings exists as a stage for their petty rivalries.

“I look forward to it,” she announces, the breeze pushing her hair in and out of her face.

They don't take their eyes off the other.

The gate whaps closed behind them and Bulma jumps. One of her guests high pitched voice tears its claws over the moment. “Who's the frowny guy, Bulma?”

Her neighbor slides her a look—accusingly, like, _of course these kinds of people would be her friends_ —and, hands in his pockets, turns and walks back to his house. Straight through the grass, like the invisible wartime wall's not even there. Eyes on his back, she makes a disgusted noise. “He's not cute, he's abominable and a plague on my house and on this land.” She knows he's heard, but her neighbor has ceased entertaining her tonight.

Her friend slips back behind the gate and Bulma moves to follow.

“He'd be a wet blanket, anyway,” she mutters, too late, watching him retreat up his steps. Before the gate closes behind her, she looks back over her shoulder at the empty walkway and the edge of his porch, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

What did she really know about her neighbor?

Bulma suddenly wanted to know everything.


	2. Chapter 2

Bulma wakes to the sounds of fighting. Her brain wakes before her body does, and she struggles to pry her eyes open in the dark. Her arms are straight around her ears and tingling, gone numb. She's not a pretty sleeper. Her brows knit in concentration. It sounds like the tell-tale movie signs: the thudding of fists on flesh, grunting, furniture knocking and protesting on wood floors.

Bulma flings herself upright in bed.

Her feet pad lightly on the cool wood floors as she makes her way to her window, the scent of leaves stealing in on the breeze. She presses her ear to the screen. The sounds aren't a figment of her imagination. In fact, they sound closer from this vantage point at the window.

They're coming from her neighbor's house.

Her hand closes over her silk robe as she heads out the bedroom door. As she cracks her front door, two men in black race out her neighbor's front door and sprint down the street. Bulma's eyes fling wide. The night observes impassively, silent save for the rustle of dry leaves and a lone cricket.

Her slippers make soft sounds in the grass as they cross from her lawn into her neighbor's. His front door is ajar. Bulma's hand presses it open slowly. The house so far is dark, but as Bulma adjusts, her heart thundering in her chest, she notices the glow of an oven light in the kitchen. It pulls her deeper in.

The first thing she sees is an arm flung across the kitchen floor. Her heart stops, but she presses forward. As she rounds the doorway, she sees her neighbor lying on his back on the cold linoleum, chest heaving, legs tangled up in a kitchen chair.

She's on her knees beside him in an instant.

His eyes are closed, but his breath reassures her. It's dangerous to be knocked unconscious and stay under, so she shakes his shoulder. “Hey,” she whispers. Her fingers pry open his eyelid.

His hand is so fast she doesn't see it move. Her hand is squeezed in his clumsy grip. His eyes open. One is already swollen and purpling. His irises are so dark his eyes look hard, pure black.

She frowns at his hand around her wrist. “You look like shit,” she says.

His hand jerks away as if repulsed, thumping to the floor. Even beat up, he looks like he's calculating how to respond. But he's still catching his breath and wincing in pain, so it means he has to take her abuse.

“What the hell happened here?” His shirt is blooming blood at his side. She leans over him. “Do you want me to call the police?”

His hand is around her wrist again. “Don't,” he says raggedly, dangerously, “call the cops.”

She stares. And then sighs. “I knew you were up to no good.”

He shoots her a look of pure malice—it's tinged with pain, so it comes off kind of pouty—and to her horror, tries to sit up. When she protests, he bats her hand away limply. “I'm fine,” he snaps.

“You are not,” she protests. She invades his space, fingers closing around his wrist to check his pulse. When he rebuffs, she just pokes him in the ribs. He inhales through his teeth and glares bloody murder at her.

“See?” She only says, point made. She doesn't wait for him to tell her what to do. She pads out the kitchen, blundering in the dark for the bathroom. Her fingers flick the light switch and she takes a moment to adjust to the white light. The room's sterile, clean and lacking any decor. It's disorienting. Who doesn't personalize their living space? Who doesn't at least have things which they use lying around that would indicate in some capacity what kind of human they were? What they enjoyed? His house is as bare as one that hasn't yet been rented, but he'd been living here when she moved in, and that was months ago. There's not even a shower curtain, only a thin white towel hanging lopsidedly from the wall and a gray toothbrush lying on its side on the sink.

Behind the mirror in the medicine cabinet, she finds a surplus of gauze and ointments and stuffs her arms full.

When she pads back into the kitchen, he's sitting upright, bare back against the stove. His shirt is clutched in one hand, and the other prods at his ribs, which ooze blood.

She squats down beside him. “Stop it, idiot,” she says, swatting his hand away.

“I don't need help,” he grits, his voice gone gravelly and tight.

She glares up at him from under her lashes and yanks a strip of gauze from its roll snappily to make a point.

Blotting blood from the skin of his side, she notices a mass of mottled bruises discoloring his skin. Old bruises, yellowed bruises. She frowns. “What the hell do you do for a living?” Their eyes meet. “Does your girlfriend beat you?”

“I'm a competitive athlete.” Then he turns away with contempt. He doesn't bother giving power to the girlfriend question. He is as stubbornly withholding as a toddler, especially when things aren't going his way. She isn't even a far off landmark on the map of His Way.

“Oh,” she says. “That explains it.” She's pulling tape with her teeth. “I've been curious.”

He side eyes her.

“You sure you don't want to go to the hospital?” At his glare, her voice gets smaller. “Won't this affect your job performance?”

“No,” he grinds out.

A force of air expels out her nose and her scowl is back in place.

After a minute simmering in tense silence, he surprises her. “What do you do for a living?” He asks, rolling his head back against the oven, eyes drifting over the wall across from them. He must be suffering a few blows to the head, because she doesn't think he'd ask her anything about herself under normal circumstances. He slumps a little with exhaustion. Bulma hypothesizes: he must have been blindsided by the break in, and he must have fought back hard.

“Well?” He snaps.

Oh, how she detests him. “I'm not a fucking nurse, if that's what you're asking.”

He seems to relax when she's rude. “That's good, because your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.”

She shoots him a look that promises death. It seems to please him.

Standing, she rummages in his freezer for an ice pack. Easy to find, as there is not much but cold air blowing past her. His kitchen is empty enough that her steps echo. There's no dish washer, but no dish drainer. Not a single appliance on the counters. Not a coffee maker, which jars her. Only the undead and aliens don't need coffee. She is not surprised that he might be either.

Only the living room has been functionally furnished, and even in the dark it looks like goodwill threw up in there. She pulls open some kitchen drawers stubbornly, curiously. Silverware rattles inside. It's unorganized, a mess of cutlery, a few aged spatulas, and a rubber band or two.

When she's done snooping, she plops the ice pack unceremoniously on his head. As she settles on her knees, his gaze flicks over her, passing over the hem of her short, silky night gown, the lace dipping down her chest, and glancing abruptly away.

“Get yourself an eye full?” She asks dryly. “Who's objectifying who now?”

His face scrunches in righteous irritation. “Please,” he snaps. “I've seen better.”

“You have not!” She smashes the ice pack into his face.

“Real noble,” he growls, “taking your frustrations out on an injured person.”

“If you don't quit complaining, I'll leave you here to manage by yourself.” She hands him a couple of pain reducers and a glass of water.

He swallows them peevishly. “I didn't ask you to come.”

“Would you just shut up and let someone help you? I don't want my neighbor dying when I could have helped. Could you imagine the smell?”

“I don't need help. With anything.” He tenses and then struggles to rock onto his feet and stand. She stands with him, mouth parted on a protest. He woozes on his feet.

“Hey, stupid, you're going to fall!” She wraps her arm around him to keep him upright. He's warm and hard and really heavy. He smells lightly of sweat, but it's unobtrusive, intimate.

His teeth grit on a groan and his knees soften. He catches his weight with his hand on the fridge.

“Seeing stars?” Her voice softens. She studies him. “Little birdies circling round your head?”

Her neighbor peers at her through one eye with a look of pure sick-of-your-bullshit. The other eye is already swollen shut.

She moves the ice pack to cover his face, effectively neutralizing his glare. Unwinding her arm from his side—if he eats shit because he's too stubborn to accept help or admit he needs it, then more power to him—she crosses them over her chest. She's putting all her force into her very own fighting stance. Monkey style, crane style, Bulma style. She's going to need a whole school of fighting in her tool belt to contend with him. “One could surmise,” she drawls, “that if you don't want to go to the police, you're hiding something.” She lifts an imperious finger. “One could also hypothesize that you know exactly who those men were and what they wanted. What happened? Why would those guys beat you up?”

He doesn't say anything, just turns away and studies his kitchen as if glaring at it will force the universe to answer just how he was put in this unfortunate situation with her.

She notices the glass on the floor. His little kitchen table has a split down the middle, like someone heavy has been tossed onto it. She goes for the broom poking out beside the fridge and begins sweeping. “Are you in trouble with some local hoodlums or something?” She persists.

“Do you ever quit prying?” He doesn't sound thankful for her at all.

She shoots him her own version of sick-of-your-bullshit. “When I'm woken up from my beauty sleep,” she bites back, “I take it personally.”

He lets out a huff and, listing, still manages to yank the broom from her grasp. Before she recognizes what's going on, he's pressing his hand at her lower back, aiming her for the front door. She locks her knees, but it barely slows him down.

Recognizing time running out, she begins throwing as many questions as she can at him. “Do you owe them money? Was it those two men I saw outside your house? Are you involved in the mob? Why is your house so bare? Hey!”

She is pushed unceremoniously out his front door. She whips around, but the door closes in her face first.

And then cracks.

One unblackened eye stares out at her. It's inky dark, ominous, but what shows of his face is exhausted. Yielding. “Thank you.”

His reluctance is so palpable she could eat it. He waits for her to say something, uncertainly.

“At least get yourself a dish drainer or something,” she finally says. “Don't tell me you're so uncultivated that you use paper plates. Or do you even need to eat? I knew it: you're a robot. Where do you hide your battery?”

His mouth flattens and the door slams shut.

“A rug would really tie the room together!” She tells the front door.

..

She's been thinking about her neighbor all day. While her pencil marks an isosceles triangle. As she pours another cup of coffee. As she washes her hands in the secluded silence of the employee bathroom. Why would someone break into a person's home and assault them, and then that person refuse to inform the police, if not because of crime? Where did he go each day, and why was he always in such a bad mood? It's a mystery, and she's a newly certified Nancy Drew.

Only as the day winds down and she's heading home does she become preoccupied with immediate concerns. Like, what is she going to eat for dinner? She parks, but there's no neighbor stalking up the sidewalk as she does. His house is quiet, unperturbed. She closes her car door. Sighs. Nothing in her fridge sounds good. On a whim, she pivots, heading down the street to the grocers on the corner. She wonders how she's never been there before, despite it being so close. In fact, she's never walked down her street—what is it, six, seven houses down?—and explored the way her quiet neighborhood flows like a tributary into an industrious city bay. This is the same path that he walks each day. His eyes roam over each bush she passes. Where ever he goes each day, it's in this direction.

The store is cold, the air conditioner running loudly on high. The grocers is not much more than a convenience store, but she grabs some meat and a sack of potatoes and places them on the counter. The guy behind it is in a stained white tee, chest hair erupting from the neck, and he doesn't even look at her as he rings her up. The skin on her bare calves and arms pebbles, and she frowns as the guys gaze finally settles and it's on her chest.

The bell dings behind her, signaling another customer inside this freezer. She's counting her coins with two fingers when she feels the heat of someone behind her. An arm reaches around her side, a hand closing on her own, preventing her from sliding the man any money. Her head whips around to disapprove of the person over her shoulder. And inhales sharply.

Her neighbor's chest rests against her back for the briefest moment before he leans back into his own space, and gives the cashier one clear, decisive shake of his head.

Bulma is rattled. Her eyes bounce between the two men.

The cashier is now visibly sweating. “Beg your pardon, ma'am. That's eleven seventy five.”

“But you just said—“

Her neighbor tosses a twenty on the counter and confuses her further as he grabs her bag of groceries and walks out.

She's still sputtering as the door closes behind them, bell dinging pleasantly.

He walks off as if he hadn't just saved her from price gouging in the most bizarre grocery store interaction she's ever been involved in. And now she owes him money. Shoved from baffled into angry because he's just walking away like nothing weird happened at all, Bulma's hands fist and she pumps her arms to hurry to his side.

“What was that about?” She demands.

His eyes tick to her. The skin around his eye is a dismal shade of royal purple, but the swelling is mostly gone. Not slouched over bleeding into his lap, he looks mostly normal. He's not bad looking. Her mouth pulls down.

“Stupid tax,” he only says.

“What?” She pauses. “Like, you don't agree with the sales tax? Are we debating the usefulness and fairness of the tax system? Are you suggesting—“

“It's a price increase because he doesn't know you,” her neighbor interrupts impatiently. “Things are very expensive there, unless he knows you, and then they're not.”

Why couldn't he just speak English? He gives her a look like she's stupid, and it galls her.

He speaks slowly. “You were paying mark price. Now you're paying my price.”

Bulma forgets how to close her mouth. “Why do you get the good deals?”

He unveils a razor sharp smirk that razes her from her toes to the crown of her head. Her body's reaction disturbs her. “Because I'm me.”

She scoffs. She cannot stand him, not at all. “What's so special about you?”

“I know people.”

She can't resist an opportunity to fish. “Like those two scary guys? Or the guys who beat you up?”

His good humor dissipates. He makes a “tch” sound of disbelief. Like he can't believe she's persisting, like she should have never seen them. “Don't worry about them.”

She filches her sack of groceries from his hand. “Worry about them?” The sun lays gold bars over their path. Their steps measure them in rhythm. “I'm not in the habit of worrying myself over any man.” It's still unseasonably warm, the breeze caressing. “Particularly one that has anything to do with you.”

Her eyes flick over to survey him as he fights a smirk. He wins, and the smirk is smothered.

She studies him. “So what's your name?”

The question annoys him, because he refuses to answer.

She fights the urge to roll her eyes. “So?” She pressures. “Your name? You know mine.”

His hands are in his pockets and he looks stubbornly away.

Her eyebrows slam down but she refuses to give in. “Look. I can't possibly call you 'my asshole neighbor' in my head a second more. It's a mouthful. And I feel like saving your life last night—”

“You didn't save my life—“

“—warrants at least a surname, if not a thank you.”

He continues looking in the opposite direction with his teeth grit, and she exhales loudly. “Fine.” She grabs his hand and stops, forcing him to halt in place and turn to her. She shakes his motionless hand. It's warm and heavy. “Hi, I'm Bulma Briefs. Your neighbor. And you are?”

She just keeps pumping his hand, leveling him with the most determined, bluest stare he's ever been the unfortunate recipient of.

Fighting it is a waste of his time at this point. Vegeta loves fighting, but winning demands a new strategy. He sighs, and takes back control of the handshake, slowing it. His hand is solid in hers. The knuckles are lightly swollen. “Vegeta.”

“Hello, Vegeta,” she purrs, growing a razor edged smile. “Why don't you ever cut your grass?”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat and stalks away.

It doesn't matter if he picks up the pace. She's still going where he's going, and this time, she wins.

She knows his name.

. . .  
DAY 19  
. . .

One piercing shriek drags its claws right down Vegeta's mental chalkboard, and he freezes from unfolding himself from his couch. It's his neighbor. From the middle of the living room, out a window with no blinds, he watches her stomp across his yard. She flings open his front door, looking less a damsel in distress and more a rampaging monster.

“My house has been broken into,” tumbles from her mouth.

Vegeta, standing in just sweatpants and socks, blinks at her groggily. “And I should care, why?”

The sarcasm is lost on her. “They stole a crucial piece of my work!” She's marching around his living room now, throwing her hands in the air. “Do you think it has anything to do with those guys who beat you up? Who would do this? Why do you look like you were asleep? Didn't you just get home from work?” She checks her watch. “It's 5:35 on a Thursday. You should have just arrived home twenty minutes ago.”

Vegeta rubs his forehead. “Slow down,” he barks. “Your thoughts are a mile a minute.”

“My brain processes on a higher level than yours! Get on my level!” She strides over. “Look, I just happen to be the keeper of a very important project, and some asshole has taken my work!”

Vegeta's eyes go wide as saucers.

“They were dressed all in black,” she explains as he darts around trying to find a t-shirt. “I have surveillance footage. All black, just like those men who beat you up. Nothing else telling.”

“They didn't beat me,” he rushes to counter. “I laid into them worse. They couldn't even see where they were going when they ran out of here.” If it sounds defensive, that's because it is.

“Quit talking and listen to me,” she commands and paces. “Black pants, black shirt, black beanies. Black facepaint. All black. That should say something.”

He pauses his search for his shirt. “What's wrong with black?”

“It's just not a very innocent color!” Her head shakes with disbelief at his ignorance. “All villains wear black.”

He pulls a shirt over his head in one fell swoop. They stand there staring at one another.

His whole outfit is black.

He needs a second. Vegeta heads to the fridge, pulls out a glass milk bottle, and chugs. She's suddenly there at his side, boxing him in. “This is really important!” She says through her teeth, bouncing on her feet.

“Sounds like your problem, Ms. Briefs,” he says blandly. He's just using this tone to get under her skin and she knows it.

“Doctor,” she corrects in a huff.

“I don't do anything for anybody.” The fridge door swings shut. “I don't care about anybody. Why would I help you?”

“Because the fate of the world depends on this!” He gives her a skeptical look, and she backtracks. “Okay, maybe not the fate of the world. But this is deeply significant to science as we know it!”

He leans against his fridge door after it falls shut, folding his arms over his chest, and stills. “If I help, what are you going to do for me?”

He doesn't smile. Just looks at her plainly. Dangerously. There's a small cut under his eye, atop his high, pronounced cheek. His upper lip is firm, the bottom lip fuller. They're masculine lips: not thin, but not pillowy. Her eyes roam his face; she can't help it.

Her voice is breathy with disbelief and maybe something else. “Are you extorting me right now?”

“No,” he counters smoothly, “I'm not.” He pulls on a black hoodie and slips his feet into sneakers. As he opens the front door, he turns to look over his shoulder, smiling darkly. “But I'd like to.”

And then he's frowning at her. “Are you coming? I need to see what they took.”

She lets her breath out her nose and stomps past, ducking under his arm as he holds open the front door. As far as Bulma's concerned, she's got no other choice.

…

He's just standing there gawking. He's in his annoying neighbor's house, in her lab. There's a flight of stairs behind an innocuous door in her kitchen that lead to the cellar, except the cellar has been completely finished and is now the lair of a mad scientist. There's a sanitary corner with beakers and and test tubes and crucibles. There's a long, wooden table on sawhorses with engine parts scattered upon it, a dry erase board scrawled with chemical compositions behind it. There are metal file cabinets spilling over with circuit boards and wires. There's also a welder and a welder's mask hanging from a propane tank next to the door. Books seem to be the glue holding everything together, shoved between everything like they are. A stack of scientific journals comprises the “end table” that her lamp sits on. It's such a shocking change, going from the living space of a normal person to the workspace of an insane person, that it takes him a moment to adjust.

She's at her computer, showing him the reel of footage. Three men in black bust the locks on her front door. They wander around her house, checking every room. They don't bother with any valuables. One opens the door in her kitchen curiously. Vegeta can see the moment they realize this is what they came for. They file down, and it doesn't take them long to find what they're looking for. They sweep it into their arms and dash back up the stairs. Bulma's cameras point down at the doorstep and the view excludes the sidewalk, so it's a crapshoot determining what kind of car they arrived in. Vegeta can't see what it is they grabbed, only that they scoop it and bolt.

Her eyes are bright, pleading. Those puppy dog eyes are really getting under his skin, because they're working. Vegeta's chewing on some thought. He scowls, then confides grudgingly, “I might know someone who knows something.”

…

She's buckling the passenger seat belt before he's even turned the key. Immovable neighbor, meet unstoppable go-getter. The sun has set and it's gotten cool enough that she tugs the front of her coat tighter around her. Finally fall decides to show up late to the party, and it's with a subzero chill. The engine turns to life. Bulma can't contain herself. If there's anything she can do to help, she wants to do it. If there's anything he can do, she'll take it. If there's anything she doesn't know, she's gotta know it. Right now, there is so much she doesn't know.

“So where are we going?”

“To see an old friend.”

She sputters dramatically. “You have friends?”

He doesn't even bite. “So let's start at the beginning. What exactly did they take from you, Ms. Briefs?”

A gust of air escapes her. “Doctor.” She looks out the windshield. “It's complicated.”

He gives her a look like, “Go on, stupid.” She sighs. “It's a houseplant.”

Vegeta's hand slips from the shifter and his foot hits the brakes.

He frowns deeply as he tries to understand. “A plant?!” He's glaring at her now as someone honks behind them.

She slaps her hand over his, urging the car back into first. “It's not just any houseplant. It's an invention, my magnum opus! It's the culmination of very important research,” she insists, whining. “I'm supposed to exhibit it in nineteen days. If I don't reveal it then, I could lose my job!”

“You cannot make me believe,” he says tightly, “that all of this is over a plant.”

Her tone gets crisp. “Are you always so swarthy?”

He shoots her a look. But he's driving again. “'Swarthy?' Like a pirate?”

“But way less cool and dangerous,” she mutters into the window.

“Only you would think I'm not dangerous.”

“You don't scare me at all, Vegeta.”

He just snorts, hand on the wheel. “I'm insulted.”

He winds them towards the interstate. It ribbons towards the lake, where it will grow more industrialized as they approach the docks. But for now, it's desolate. Just outside the city, fields stretch to the horizon.

“So you're a...scientist?” He sounds like he's trying really hard to make conversation. She gets the feeling he doesn't know how to make small-talk and doesn't want to. Honestly she doesn't know why he's even trying. “And the plant is part of your research?”

Bulma figures the more he knows, the more informed he can be. “An engineer by trade. I've been partnered with some astrophysicists, at the moment, since that is my secondary background. I work downtown at the government building. Science Agency.”

Instead of asking her what a astrophysicist is—the question she is used to—he surprises her. “Why do you live alone?”

Bulma watches him with growing consternation as he slows at a stop sign. Her mouth flattens. “Why?” Her tone is icy. “Think I wouldn't have been robbed if a man were there to protect me?”

“I didn't say that.”

She scrutinizes him, then seems to melt into the seat. “My lab was even booby trapped,” she groans, slouching. “There's surveillance and counter strike everywhere.” She slides two sticks of gum out of her coat pocket and holds one out to him between two fingers. He blinks at it. Slowly, he slides it from her grasp, unwraps it, and pops it into his mouth. His jaw is strong and well-defined, and Bulma forces herself to look away. She has a weakness for strong jaws and strong men in general, but she knows better than to reveal that to the enemy.

“I asked you a question.” He glances over, waiting for her to spill the beans about her living situation.

She stares back stubbornly. He hasn't answered any of her questions, either. But she's locked in this car with him and he's helping her, so she decides to share and play nice. She casts her gaze straight ahead and confesses. “I'm divorced.”

It's almost imperceptible, but his eyes widen with surprise, his grip light on the leather wheel. Bulma goes to bite her nails but her gloves are still on, so she crosses her arms over her chest. “I was young and in love,” she explains matter-of-factly, to get him to quit looking like that. “And then I grew up.”

His expression is hard to read. Nothing changes, but his gaze turns inward, as if thinking.

Bulma knows the presumption that she grew up is laughable. How many times have they slung playground insults at each other? It's their daily ritual. If she hasn't made fun of him or called him names before dinner, the day feels askew, it just doesn't feel quite right. There's nothing adult about that. Their whole relationship is predicated on roasting the other. Last week, she'd made a cutting remark about his widow's peak. The week before that, they'd escalated a feud before the Housing Association about where he placed his trash cans. He'd won, and he'd smirked, showing teeth—it wasn't quite a smile—all the way to the parking lot. With her neighbor, they fought for the crown of immaturity. Their motto: any cost is acceptable to win today's game.

Vegeta doesn't point it out. He should; the opening is right there. Instead, he lets her keep her dignity and the quiet to resume its dominance on the inside of his car.

It's not uncomfortable, being with this stranger in a car. Bulma frowns as she gazes out the window. The sun has set and everything is doused in a pool of liquid blue now, like they're underwater.

Her eyes skate over to his side of the car. “Don't get any ideas.” She waits for him to get it. “I know I'm a beautiful, single woman, but you keep your paws off.”

He makes a noise in his throat that sounds totally offended and disgusted. She smiles serenely, watching as he puffs up. She's back in her element, goading him.

“I would never,” he promises darkly. Not because he's a gentleman, but because she's so beneath him.

She has him trapped in a car now. She admitted something personal, so now it's his turn. “So why were you being beaten up, anyway?” She leans in with her elbow on the center consul, staring. Ready to watch him squirm. They're stuck in this car together for the moment. He has nowhere to run.

She doesn't know how such a masculine, hard looking man can be outgunned by a small woman, but he just can't find solid ground around her. He might be able to deflect and attack where he has room to maneuver a retreat, but close proximity with no escape has him trapped. He grits his teeth. He doesn't want to talk about himself for some reason. Finally he lets out an angry huff that ends on a sigh. He knows defeat with her too much. “I owed someone something.”

“Money?” She can't help her sudden jolt of curiosity.

“No, not money.” His voice is sure and smooth, even when he's staggering. The man was probably cursing himself for agreeing to help her. She's really gotta back off so that she doesn't scare her only lifeline away. Bulma promises herself she'll try.

He doesn't say anything else. Sensing that's all she's going to get out of him, she tries a different angle. “Well, what do you do for a living? You're an athlete, right?” She leans even closer. Promise to herself already broken. Her voice lowers. “Because you're in a gang?”

He makes another disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. Had she already reduced him to no words? How disappointing.

“What can I say,” he finally utters dryly. He shoots her a look like she's gotten too close, but not quite. “I was an impressionable kid.”

“I was an impressionable kid and you didn't see me joining a gang.”

His eyes narrow. “I can see why your husband divorced you.”

Bulma retaliates in the only way she can. She pinches the space between his ribs between her thumb and forefinger. She's like a painter, adding deeper, moodier color to the yellow backdrop that blooms under his skin.

He gives her his meanest look.

She gives him the meanest look she can muster and hopes it's half as mean as his. She's been getting a lot of practice in with their after work scrimmages.

She thinks she sees a look pass over his face like he'd felt like smiling, but then his body had shut the whole thing down. “Look,” he grits. He's changing the conversation. Sitting straighter, his face smooths with purpose. “We're visiting an old...friend.” He may as well have dragged his feet over the word 'friend.' “He might know who's in the business of breaking into old divorced women's houses and stealing house plants.” The look he gives her is deadpan and she glares. “He knows things,” he continues. “His business is information.” The car is rolling to a stop outside the docks. “These guys don't mess around,” he says with utter seriousness. “Your job is to stay low. Don't talk, don't call attention to yourself. I'm in control at all times.” He's enunciating carefully now, in case she's stupid. “I don't need a partner, I don't want a partner. You're only here to I.D. the plant. You just stand there.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” she says hurriedly as her hand closes on the door handle.

His eyes glitter with an idea. “I could leave you in the car.”

“Well you can't because I'm coming,” she says, throwing her door open. Then leans down to look at him inside from under the roof of the car. The curls at her neck fall forward. “If you did, I'd just follow you,” she promises brightly.

“Why don't I have rope in the back,” she thinks she hears as he walks around the car to her. “Rope and a gag.” She doesn't care. They're about to find out what happened to her work. She hops a little on her feet.

He stops in front of her, staring at her pointedly. “I mean it.” His hand closes over her forearm, careful but firm. “Leave this to me.”

Her eyes widen as he touches her. He must really, really want her to shut up if he's dirtying himself touching her. “Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles, shaking him off. “I get it. Jeez, I'm not an idiot.”

“You have to prove it first.” He turns away.

“I can see why you're single.” If they're criticizing each other's love lives, then all's fair. He acts like he doesn't hear her.

He beelines for an alley. They snake through industrial alley after alley. It smells like lake. Bulma hopes her trust in her neighbor isn't misplaced and he's not leading her somewhere to kill her. Maybe all her hairline jokes have finally gotten to him.

She sees them a second before she almost collides into Vegeta's back. He's stopped in front of a metal door and the two men guarding it. They look straight out of a cartoon—beady eyes, massive shoulders, little heads. They are the picture of evil villain bodyguards.

“Vegeta.” They eye her neighbor warily. “What brings you here today?”

“I've got business with Shinhan.”

“No you don't. I would know.”

“New business,” Vegeta persists. “Something he wants to know about.”

“He probably already knows.”

“Not about this,” Vegeta snaps.

He has no patience at all, she laments. She's already second-guessing her decision to bring him into this, and they haven't even gotten inside yet!

Finally, they notice her, poking her head out from Vegeta's back. “I didn't know you had a girlfriend,” one of them comments.

Vegeta's voice is aggrieved. “She's not my girlfriend—“

Bulma abhors the fact that someone thinks she even likes this guy. “He's not even my type!” She rejects.

Vegeta whips around to confront her with distaste. “What do you mean, I'm not your type? I'm everyone's type.” His tone was seriously pissy. “You're not my type.”

“Not everyone's,” she chirps.

“Says you.”

“Says—“

“Do you want inside or not?” The guard interrupts.

Bulma and Vegeta shut up and nod. The guard holds the door open, shaking his head, like he's just seen two kids get in a fight over who can jump the highest.

She follows Vegeta in cautiously, peering around. It's just a hallway, spanning the length of several metal shipping containers fused together. They get to another door.

Vegeta turns to her, effectively preventing her from moving further in. His face looks all stiff, like he's restraining himself from shaking her. “Stay quiet,” he demands, low. “Shut up. Be agreeable. You go running your big mouth, they're going to notice you. And you don't want that.”

“You don't want that. Jealous?” She can't help it. She's cursed.

“I don't have to take you any further,” he cautions her.

“You started it,” she reminds him. “It's not my fault it's physically impossible for a woman to be attracted to you—“

He's close to boiling over in frustration.“It's impossible to get you to see reason!” He whisper-yells. “There's no winning with you!”

“Ditto! Ready to surrender?”

His eyes narrow and, fingers clasping the doorway, he leans in. “Don't count on it.”

The glare hostilely at each other for a long second before Vegeta puts his hand on the doorknob and turns it. They pour in.

“Vegeta, how good to see you,” says a voice that doesn't sound happy to see him at all. “It's been awhile. Last time was that catastrophe at—oh, who's this?”

Bulma opens her mouth but Vegeta's sneaker lands hard on her toes. Her mouth clamps shut. She sends him a nasty look, but follows Vegeta's lead when he sits down. She sits in the chair beside him silently.

The man they sit across is tall, broad, and bald, in a green two piece suit with absolutely no shirt on underneath. He's got a third eye tattooed in the middle of his forehead that's disconcerting to look at. Or try not to look at. He's all pecs and gleaming baldness, and he doesn't look like he's ever empathized with a person in their life. He looks like he eats nails for breakfast. He's not someone Bulma sees herself sharing tea and gossip with in the future. Which is a shame. Bulma loves gossip.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Something has gone missing. We're wondering if you've heard anything about its movement.”

“Well.” The man puts a shoe on his desk, and then another. It's shiny black. Bulma stares at it. “An eye for an eye, and all that.”

Vegeta goes rigid beside her, but Shinhan seems to expect that, and his tone smooths out. “Not that I expect anything from you, Vegeta. I'm simply laying out the terms of my service. You give me information, and I give you information.”

“You haven't given us anything.”

“One pays for a thing before they use it.”

“Then what are you fishing for?”

Bulma's eyes dart to Vegeta at his tone. God, he was really bad at this! She didn't see how getting on the guy's bad side was an effective strategy at all!

“I'll decide that later. What are you looking for?”

“You'll decide payment now, or no deal.”

“I'm going to need something before I commit to anything.”

“Then no deal.” Vegeta makes to stand, but Bulma, half-rising out of her chair, makes a protesting sound inadvertently in the back of her throat.

“Who is this, Vegeta?” Shinhan's eyes fall on her. Even the fake eye seems to be taking her measure. “You don't team up.”

“She's no one.”

“I beg to differ,” Bulma mutters.

Shinhan's eyes get sharp. “Is she the reason you're here?”

“We're going.” He's standing again and turning toward the door.

“We're looking for a plant,” Bulma blurts out.

Vegeta glares at her with the kind of look that should cause her to explode. She ignores him.

Shinhan smiles. “You're going to have to give me more information than that.”

Vegeta forcibly expels air. “We're looking for a houseplant.” He says it through his teeth.

“It's about yay big, with large marbled leaves and two magenta flowers in a star pattern,” Bulma includes helpfully, fingers measuring air. “I have a sketch if that would assist you.”

Vegeta looks like he wants to squash her.

Shinhan leans forward, considering. “And what's so special about this plant?”

Vegeta glares daggers at her, but she glances away, brows knitting in determination. “It's a crucial piece of my work—“

Vegeta bites down on his teeth.

“—and it was taken by three men, each wearing black, from my home. They didn't touch any valuables. They knew exactly what they were looking for.”

“A plant, hm?” Shinhan leaned back, folding his arms over his wide chest. “Chiaotzu might know something.”

Vegeta makes a disbelieving noise that Bulma feels is not at all polite to their host, and she sends him a look that tells him so. It's Vegeta's turn to ignore her. “Chiaotzu? Please. If that's all you got, I'm not buying.”

The man in front of them grows intimidating. His face darkens. “Chiaotzu is very good at what he does.”

“His last fight proves otherwise.” A smirk claws up the corner of Vegeta's mouth.

The man looks like he is contemplating jumping over the table and strangling Vegeta. Bulma knows how he feels. Identifying and sympathizing with this man, she stands, holding out her hand. “We accept your terms. We'll be going now, so as not to put any further strain on your graciousness.” She fires a look at Vegeta over her shoulder. “How will you relay us what you find?”

Shinhan stands, smoothing his green suit jacket, and shakes her hand. “I'll have an answer for you directly after Vegeta's next fight.”

Vegeta just won't quit. “What's the price?”

Shinhan smiles. It's oily. He's all bulging muscles, and so tall it makes his pivoting office chair look absurd. Bulma sees the fighter in him clearly. The bargain is the fight for him now. “The information is the prize, Vegeta.”

“I prefer a prize I can hold in my hands,” Vegeta points out. “Like a houseplant, or a tournament trophy.”

The two men stare at each other, their postures full of pretense but their eyes savage. They know exactly what kind of game the other is playing, and both intend on exploiting it.

“A favor in the future,” Shinhan finally says.

“No favors,” Vegeta growls. “I don't do favors.”

Bulma watches the barely restrained aggression with insatiable curiosity and discomfort.

“I'll collect later,” Shinhan eases in, like Vegeta never refused.

Vegeta just doesn't know when to quit. “You'll tell me the price now.”

“I'll have my man collect it as he leaves.”

“You aren't collecting anything. The deal's off.” Vegeta's voice goes low and deadly.

Shinhan sees he's pushed Vegeta too hard and walks it back. He sighs, sitting again. “Fine. Consider this a freebie.” He rests his cheek on his knuckles and looks at them with fatigue, as if the weight of the world's Vegetas rests on his shoulders. “Because the reason why a bunch of armed men broke into a pretty scientist's home and stole a houseplant, and then she managed to strong arm you into looking for it, warrants enough of a payment.” He's glaring at them now. “Go.”

…

Vegeta is in no mood to deal with Bulma. Like usual, she wants to discuss things at the pace light makes in space. She's dissecting their encounter with Shinhan like it's a double helix on a lab table, picking apart and analyzing each and every exhalation of breath and withholding of it as he stalks to the car. She's fearless, relentless, and absolutely hair-pullingly frustrating. These are traits he prizes in himself but loathes in her. She is grating on every nerve that likes being in control and being the best. Vegeta is still grimacing, picking at Shinhan's last barb like food in his teeth. The one thing she hasn't seemed to catch on to: the suggestion that Vegeta had lost a fight to this pain in the ass, and the insinuation that Shinhan will be plowing for information on that, too.

Bulma, meanwhile, wastes no time stomping to the car, chattering. She's standing at her car door now, staring at him like she's waiting for him to say something.

“What?” He barks, at his wit's end.

“I said,” she says slowly like he's stupid, “when and where's the fight?”

He looks at her blankly, and then springs into angry motion. He rips open his door and slides in. He is just one more bad piece of news away from a full pout. “Doesn't matter,” he rasps, turning on the car. “You're not going.”

“The hell I'm not!” She closes the door with a bang and glares. “I'm going to that fight,” she declares. “I want to know everything right away when you do.”

“The hell,” he growls, leaning in, “you are.”

“Oh,” she promises, voice low, “I am going.” She's leaning into his face now. “I will be there, whether you've approved it or not.”

The car is stuffy with nearly nuclear-fissioning silence.

There's no one around to hear when he breaks but her. He snatches a pen and napkin from his console and scribbles an address and time. He slaps it on the dashboard and shoves it her way.

Bulma takes it primly.


	3. Chapter 3

. . .  
DAY EIGHTEEN  
. . .

It's getting late, but this is when the arena comes to life. Bulma adjusts the little felt hat that sits askance on her head and tightens the belt of her coat as cigar smoke fogs the entrance around her. She sidles through the crowd of boisterous men, sticking to the wall. They ignore her for the most part, except for some brief assessments. They're intent on the ring, on betting and arguing and hashing out whose swing arm is better than whose. There are only two kinds of women here, and both are in short supply: the brazen women yelling their own bets, and those whose sole purpose is to adorn a man's arm. Bulma looks like an accessory that has broken free, confusing the narrative. She squeezes past them with her head down. Her gloved hands pull her coat belt nervously once more as she navigates the stands in heels. There's been several fights already. Vegeta gave her the time he went on stage only. It seems like the crowd is already several pints in, and she presses close to the shadows, blue eyes rounding.

 _This_ is what he does? _This_ is “athleticism?” The place is an absolute stench pot of ugly male behavior. Gambling, smoking, violence. She turns her nose up, scowling at the empty ring. It's crude. And he called _her_ classless.

The small arena is dim but for some wanting lighting around the walls and the blaring lights over the ring. It smells like sweat, and Bulma wonders how she wound up circling the drain of the seven circles of hell, with all its chaos and vices on display. Of course her neighbor would thrive in a place like this, she thinks sourly. The smell of brimstone was nearly wafting through the air, sulfur scintillating in the air. She chafes a little as someone spills their beer just a step away from her shoes.

Bulma stands apart from the crowd so that no one jostles her, but the building is small enough that she can see the refs sad, thin mustache as he hops into the ring. The stage lights dim. The announcer's voice booms. Bulma huffs a little, shuffling her feet impatiently, because there are greater things at stake than this stupid match and these glee club theatrics. She glances at her slim gold watch as an enormous man lumbers into the ring, red shorts and red gloves, and tries not to roll her eyes as he beats his chest and throws his arms out wide. This is what her neighbor does? These, these backdoor brawls? She's disappointed. She expected more out of him, somehow. This is just so—

The announcer bellows Vegeta's name, and the crowd jumps to their feet, roaring in answer. Bulma, in the top row of stands, can't hear anything else the announcer says. And then doesn't need to.

A lethal silhouette shadows a doorway. She knows instinctively, exactly who it is. She doesn't see him make his way to the ring; there are too many people standing, pumping their fists, crowding him. But then he pulls himself up into the ring with a hand on the corner, ducks under a rope and stretches straight, and her mind is steamrolled. No logical thought exists in it anymore.

Her neighbor is wearing only tight, black shorts and black boxing gloves. As he limberly, idly arches back, the thick muscles of his chest and the hard ridges of his abs gleam in the light. His back ripples as he warms up his shoulders, his dense erectors and the hard sides of his lean waist dipping into the waistband of his shorts. No lithe swimsuit model, even his legs are powerful, dangerously curved. He finally levels his gaze at his opponent from under straight, unyielding brows, those dark eyes finding a focus, a target, pinning him with complete focus and utter certainty. His opponent visibly fidgets. Bulma does, too.

Then the bell dings and Bulma can't keep track of the action. Vegeta rushes in and it's a flurry of fists and kicks, Vegeta easily swooping and ducking under swings and smoothly twisting away from kicks. His opponent is already on the defense, unable to land a punch on him. She marvels at his grace. His easy, arrogant gliding walk makes sense now. He knows exactly what he's capable of, and relishes in it.

Like finally closing her hand around something in the dark, she grasps that this is the product of a man completely devoted to his craft. Whose only care in the world has been fighting and winning, who has eaten and breathed and lived it day in day out to earn the privilege of this moment and its impending victory. He stalks the man across the ring, raining blows designed to leech strength, controlled and precise. He seems to float effortlessly across the ring, cutting through the air even as he launches a blistering attack. Fearless, hungry...seductive. Bulma doesn't think her understanding of him can come back from this. This force of nature was living next to her the whole time?

Vegeta's speed picks up, and the roar of the crowd gets even louder. His treatment of his opponent becomes rougher, a coup de grace, a climax, as he finishes him off with lethal, dramatic accoutrements. He's a man who's committed to making the final moments even better than the climax getting there, because every second of his time counts. Bulma tugs at the neck of her coat, suddenly hot.

The civilized mask of her neighbor's finally drops, aggression torrenting from him, and with a fierce shout drowned out by the crowd, Vegeta launches his fist into his opponent's temple. And his opponent goes down.

The guy hasn't even hit the floor yet and the crowd is on their feet, belting, throwing their fists, whistling and clapping. Vegeta's thick arm is hoisted in the air by the ref, and Bulma's eyes slide over slick muscle, over the fierce face that an hour ago wasn't traditionally handsome and now is cataclysmically so.

He turns, giving the crowd his back, and though it takes a second, Bulma's urgency shakes her from her stupor and she remembers her purpose.

She dives through the crowd with less finesse and with a single purpose. It's hard to sense the direction she should be going. She wedges herself left, right, and then gets turned around. The men are all taller than her, and they're not paying a bit of attention to her. So when she finally erupts from the other side, she finds herself right smack in front of two hulking bodyguards and a group of scantily clad women hovering outside the entrance they're guarding.

Bulma tries to tear her eyes away from all the skin that's on display and lock eyes with a bodyguard. His stare is distant and hard.

“I need to see Vegeta.”

They only stare. Her brows knit, and just as she opens her mouth to repeat herself, one asks, “Name?”

She blinks. “Bulma Briefs.”

He thumbs over his shoulder, shifting to let her through.

She blinks again, realizes how idiotic she must look just standing there, and then straightens her shoulders and strides in. She tries not to brush any of the women on the way, whose gazes rake over her in clear disapproval. They think she's here for the same reason they are, and Bulma bristles.

There's a short length of hallway, and then a single door, a piece of paper with Vegeta's name taped to it. Bulma knocks hesitantly, and then huffs, turns the doorknob, and just steps in.

She sucks in her breath and leans her weight against the closed door behind her. Vegeta stands with his back to her, unwrapping his knuckles of tape. The lines of his silhouette are striking in the light of the dressing room table, and when his eyes find her in the mirror, piercing, he is almost feral. “Here to put your hands all over me like the other ones?”

Bulma scowls. She yanks the belt of her coat, which slides open, and then realizes the implications, and clears her throat, blushing. “Hardly,” she says too forcefully. “Haven't you the clue yet?” She's reminding them both what she's here for. Just in case current events have caused a memory lapse in one of them. She tugs her gloves off, pockets them, and lays her coat and hat over a chair. “Well? Anything?”

Vegeta watches her, and all the hairs on her body stand on end. She feels exposed, like she's not wearing enough clothing, even though the knee length skirt and long-sleeved blouse couldn't be any closer to virtuousness and chastity.

He shakes his head once, then looks down at his hand again, patiently unwrapping. He's slick with sweat. Bulma nervously rubs her hands and presses her lips together. She's anxious to get the lead and get her plant back. To occupy herself, she spots a towel hanging from a chair arm and tosses it to him. He catches it without even looking. She folds the pile of towels in the chair, neatly stacking them, trying not to appear out of sorts.

Vegeta watches her when she's not looking. A smirk is tugging at the corner of his lips. He enjoys watching her fidget.

“And not even a scratch on you,” she complains, cutting a poisoned look at him.

This time he does smile. “I'm not easily touched.”

She sidles up. Her eyelashes brush her cheeks, her teal hair glowing in the dressing room mirror. Her small fist darts out and womps him on his side. She smirks up at him. “It's not that hard. I got one in.”

“I let you.”

“Hardly. I was too fast.” She bounces on her feet, punching the air lightly. “Do I look like you?” She uppercuts the air and mouths _“pow.”_ She stills, and they smile at each other.

She makes a mock look of distaste. “You're all sweaty.” She wipes her knuckles off on the towel around his shoulders, and helplessly, her gaze strays to look him up and down. “Ugh! All these muscles,” she's complaining. “You really should put a shirt on!”

His smirk grows toothier. “Sounds like you're enjoying this, Ms. Briefs.”

“Doctor. And wrong. Where's your shirt?” She looks the room up and down, on a mission.

“I think I'll leave it off,” he informs her.

Her eyes meet his from under his brows, eyes that see right through her, when the door blows open. Bulma's barely able to eek out a “What the hell?” when a man comes barreling at Vegeta, surprising him with a tackle. The man's fist collides with Vegeta's jaw before Vegeta can react, when something drops out of the arm of his suit jacket, falling to be crushed under Vegeta's side. Just as Vegeta uses all his momentum to buck the man off and pin him, his bodyguards wrecking ball through. Vegeta's own fists sinks into the flesh of the stranger's cheek, and then the bodyguards are pulling the man up and dosing out their own justice. Bulma's hand clenches the dressing room table and she angles herself away from the ruckus, but her eyes dart back to the folded up paper on the floor.

The guards are finally dragging the man out of the dressing room, and Bulma can hardly wait for the door to close before she bends down and snatches up the note. She's unfolding it to read as Vegeta curses, pacing. “Hush,” she reprimands, holding up a finger. Her eyes scan the text, and then grow. She holds it out to him. All of the cockiness has been drained out of him, and her neighbor is now just a snarling panther with the hair on his tail puffed out.

He grabs it and reads it himself, and then looks at her.

“Shinhan,” he curses, the name dropping heavily. “He set this up.”

“Why go through all the trouble to send a man in through a guarded door?” Bulma frowns, puzzled. “He had to have known it wouldn't have ended well.”

“That was exactly the point.” Vegeta's voice is rough. He crushes the note in his fist. Bulma frowns and grabs it out of his hand, unfolding it and smoothing it. “That was the big scheme. Act like a crazed fan wanted a piece of me so no one's the wiser.”

“I thought staying low would be the proper strategy.”

“That was Shinhan's price.” Vegeta's face darkens. “He couldn't extract a favor out of me, so he aimed to embarrass me. Some nobody got a hit on me with a sucker punch. He wanted to humiliate me, give me the clue, and punish that guy all in one go.”

Bulma gaped. “But why send a guy in to get beat up? Who would sign up for that?”

“That garbage,” he accuses, “has been fixing to get me back for—“ Vegeta stutters to a halt, his eyes walling up with concealed secrets. “For something,” he finishes secretly. “And given I've heard through the grapevine that he just caused some of Shinhan's cards to fall, I imagine Shinhan wanted to teach him a lesson, too.”

Bulma looks like she's tasted something sour. “All of these machinations,” she gripes.

Vegeta sighs loudly. They're just the way of things, she can tell he's thinking. You roll with the punches or you end up knocked flat. Bulma has struggles, too. Her coffee maker broke last week and Barb at work uses too much perfume.

He idles over to a darker corner of the room and flicks on a light, which exposes a small shower—with a glass door. Bulma's eyes widen. “I'll clean up,” Vegeta says as he knocks the knob to hot, “and then we'll go track it down.”

“You're just going to shower right here?” Bulma's voice rises.

Vegeta's eyebrow wings up, but she knows the bastard knows exactly what he's doing and enjoys it. “You can watch, Ms. Briefs.” He prowls towards her and she freezes, but he just grabs some keys off a small table and tosses them to her. “Or you can wait in the car.”

She won't be winning this one. Bulma is out the door in seconds.

...

“I didn't know you had a car,” Bulma is saying when he slides in the front seat. “Because you walk home. Where are you coming from?”

Vegeta says nothing, and her brows snap together. She's regained her icy composure, sitting in the cold car for fifteen minutes. Now she's annoyed at being inconvenienced. “For what I'm assuming is training for barbaric displays like the one tonight,” she adds.

She's on the defense now, Vegeta knows, even if she doesn't. She feels like she's lost some ground in some way, swooning over him like she did.

“Is that what you do all day? Punch a, a punching bag all day?”

“It's a bit more complicated than that,” he grouses, turning the wheel.

“So enlighten me.”

His voice is flat. “How 'bout I don't.”

“You're no fun,” she gripes, looking out the window. “Now I understand why you're a fighter. You take everything way too seriously.” She makes her fist into a pretend microphone and shoves it his way with mock curiosity. “Did the punches over the years knock out all your capacity for fun?”

“Oh, there's plenty I find fun,” he says into the mic. His smirk is evil.

“There's nothing smart or fun about fighting,” she says just to get under his skin. Although after seeing him tonight, she doesn't believe a word of it it.

He doesn't take the bait. “I can withstand a lot of pain. Can you?”

Her tone is achingly sweet. “It's a pleasure being so smart that I don't have to indulge in such provincial activities.”

“Provincial?” He sounds genuinely offended.

“Yes. Unfamiliar with the word?” She croons, rustling her hair. “I'm calling you stupid.”

“Don't make me stop this car and turn it around.” He says it with such threatening calm that Bulma places her hands in her lap and presses her lips together.

Vegeta smiles. He wins this one.

“Your trash can had fallen onto my lawn when I got home, by the way.”

Vegeta's brows crash down.

“Fix that,” she says coolly.

“Make me,” he bites back.

She turns her head to him. She has delicate features for being such an insufferably demanding loud mouth. Milky skin, vivid blue eyes. Delicate, arched eyebrows. The apples of her cheeks round under her eyes when she smiles. In the pools of street light that queues over them and then drops them back into shadow again and again, she's captivating. Made of moonlight and nighttime, like a dryad in an art nouveau painting.

“You won't be so sassy after I dump your garbage all over your lawn.” She ruins it.

The car drifts to a stop at a stop sign. The intersection is empty.

He twists to face her. His sharp toothed smile makes her face fall. He leans forward, his elbow on the center consul now, and she shifts back, eyes widening.

“Think about it, doctor. I haven't mowed all summer. Why would I pick up any trash? Now imagine having to look at my yard like that every day from your pretty living room.”

“You're an animal,” she finally says, low and accusing.

His gaze draws down the line of her clenched jaw.

He jerks back, affecting nonchalance. “About half an hour until we get there.”

Accepting that they have a stalemate for now, Bulma looks out the windshield, chewing on her bottom lip. “I just can't get over the fact that Shinhan would send one of his men in to clobber you.” She sighs, failing to find words. “It's rude. It's low. It's...just...not very nice.”

“Who told you the world was nice, Ms. Briefs?”

She turns her head to him.

His eyes gleam in the night. “Your parents? Your teachers?” He watches her. “The world's not nice, and it doesn't owe you anything. Nothing's easy. You have to work for and earn what you want. You alone are responsible for taking it. Because no one else cares about you more than they care about themselves.”

His monologue isn't meant to be stinging. It packs the punch of hard fought truth. He's not making fun of her, he's giving her a gift. The gift of truth, which might be salt in the wound, but then the tools to focus and bandage it herself.

“Why do you care so much about fighting?” She asks it of the window, softly.

“Is that what you got from what I just said?”

“I can infer,” she corrects him, “that if you spend your precious time fighting, it must be highly of value to you.”

“You're smarter than you look.”

“I have beauty and brains.”

“Well, brains, maybe.”

She pokes him hard in the ribs. Hot-blooded, he's not wearing a coat, only a tee shirt. He scowls at her.

“I'm exponentially smarter and more attractive than you are.” Her hands make an explosive gesture to really demonstrate and rub it in.

“You're deluded.”

“Men drop like flies when I near.”

“Man eater.”

The car slows, and Vegeta flips the lights and pulls onto the side of the road. Down the road, men are unloading a truck. Vegeta watches them intensely. “Pilaf's men,” he only says.

“What are they unloading from the truck?” Bulma squints, but they're too far away and it's too dark to see. “Wait a minute,” she whisper-yells. “Mayor Pilaf?!”

“The very one,” Vegeta says cynically.

“Bodyguards?” At Vegeta's sharply disappointing glance, her jaw falls a little further. “ _Thugs?_ What business does the mayor have to order thugs around? And who's footing the bill?”

“The same business as all the rest. Power.” Vegeta sighs, quick and conflicted, like he knows he has to tell her something he shouldn't. She wants to know everything. He doesn't want her to know anything.

When he looks back at her, focused and intense, Bulma's heart skips a beat. She ignores it.

“Pilaf wants political clout. He wants to climb the ladder, become a senator. But he's just not made of the right stuff, and he knows it. He has no charisma, no history of good deeds. He can't convince anyone to sink any money into him because every policy he implements is a colossal failure. All he has is lust for power, and for showing it off. So he supplements the love of the people with money, because money buys votes. Bribes, extortion, racketing. Climbing to gain power over someone else who has power, so that he can feel like the one in control. But the thing about Pilaf,” Vegeta finishes, glancing over at the truck, where the men are still loading, “is he's not very bright. Just needy. He sees only what he wants, and sends his equally dumb goons out to accomplish it.”

“He's gotten this far?” Bulma's mouth slants, pondering. “What a sad indictment of our political system.”

Vegeta gives her a look like he's relieved she understands. “Pilaf is easy to map out. It's easy to see where he's coming from and how he's going to react. We don't want to start a war—we want to remain invisible. Our secrecy is important. Everything pivots on it. I don't want these guys knowing who we are, or to give them anything to counter against. His muscle is even stupider than he is. I play on that.” Vegeta's eyes narrow as he watches out the windshield. “Pilaf's leaving.”

Bulma wonders how he knows all this, and then suddenly it doesn't matter. Information and strategy is all that matters, and Vegeta has it in deep supply. She's suddenly furious that things have become so dire, so mercenary, so black and white. Before yesterday evening, her biggest grievance had been the seam she'd ripped in her favorite work shirt. “I swear, if they have my plant,” her voice thickens with aggression, “I'm going to kick their asses.”

Vegeta fights the urge to smile and rolls down a look of disinterest. “Why don't you leave the ass kicking to me, Ms. Briefs?”

But Bulma's throwing open the door and standing up.

Vegeta scrambles to catch up. “What are you doing?” He hisses.

“I'm going to go get answers,” she grits back.

“You idiot!”

“Hi, boys!” Bulma waves.

The men in black turn to her.

Vegeta grabs her forearm, whether to keep her from doing anything else or protect her, she can't tell. She shakes him off; he holds on. They compromise on a weird arm holding. “Gentlemen,” she only continues, shaking him off uselessly, “could you tell me—”

Bulma undoes the tie of her coat and turns, led by the swing of her hips. It slides off her shoulders, and holding it in one arm, she peers over her shoulder coquettishly. “My date says this skirt makes my butt look big.” She pouts. “Is that true?”

Vegeta freezes.

The men erupt all at once.

“Oh, no, not at all, missus—“

“Your rear end looks real nice in that skirt!”

“Your ass is perfect!”

Bulma smiles sweetly at them, batting her eyelashes. “See?” She says, addressing Vegeta. “They know how to appreciate a woman.”

“I'll show you just how much I appreciate you,” he's threatening under his breath.

Bulma glances at him dismissively and then turns back on the charm. “What are you handsome fellas out here doing on such a cold night?”

The three men all look at each other like they've forgotten what they're doing. Now that they've had a good look at them, Bulma and Vegeta can tell the goons are even less smart than they suspected. “We're unloading this truck for the Grand Mistress.”

Vegeta goes still at her side.

“Oh! You guys must be so strong!” Bulma laughs like she imagines a sorority girl might giggle to woo a big dumb jock, loud and playful. Bulma never even knew any sorority girls. She's slathering it on way too thick, vexing Vegeta, but the men are eating it up. “Do you have any plants in there? I love plants!”

“No, ma'am.” One of them takes his hat off and wrings it politely in his hands. “No plants. Only liquor.”

“Oh.” Bulma can't keep the disappointment from her voice. “Okay. Thank you.”

Vegeta already tugs on her arm. She shoots him an irritated look. “You've had enough fun. Let's go,” he growls impatiently.

She hates it when he tries to tell her what to do. On the upside, she's able to make his life hell. To his horror, she starts unbuttoning her blouse. “While you guys are here, could you tell me if my bra makes my breasts look too big?”

Bulma hardly gets to finish her sentence before her neighbor is dragging her back to the car with a ground eating pace. He unhands her next to the passenger car door and then stalks to the driver's side, decides against it and marches right back around to her.

Bulma sucks in air when he closes in. His fingers brush her chest as he deftly buttons her back up.

“It only required knocking a few heads. That's it. That's what I meant. But you can't lay low, not once.” He sounds past his wit's end. His breath feathers against her face.

And then he's done buttoning every button all the way up to her neck, and he's already halfway to his car door. She slides her hand against her chest where his hand has just been, and then opens the car door and slides in.

“Really, Vegeta,” she counters. “It's not rocket science. And I got a compliment out of it. Not every problem needs to be solved with violence.”

“I beg to differ,” he responds tightly.

“If Tien Shinhan sent us here,” she's already speculating, finger tapping on her chin, “then he's either messing with us, or I'm not understanding something.”

“Oh, it was a clue, all right.”

Bulma's face screws with confusion. “How? They didn't have the plant.” If he had let her use her women's weapons, maybe she'd have gotten more leads.

“They weren't meant to have the plant. They were Pilaf's men working for the Grand Mistress. That's interesting in and of itself. That's two avenues to explore, though. We don't have this dialed in.” He frowns.

“Who's the Grand Mistress?”

Vegeta only broods, pulling away from the curb.

Bulma sighs. It's like bleeding blood from a stone with him. “I have to work tomorrow,” she says eventually, “and it's late.” A yawn fights its way out of her, and she rests her head against the window.

It should be impossible, but she thinks Vegeta's voice softens. “I'll drop you off.”

“And then fix your damn trashcan,” she mumbles, eyes fluttering shut. “It almost fell on my petunias.”

Vegeta watches her from the side. “Okay,” he concedes.


	4. Chapter 4

. . .  
DAY SEVENTEEN  
. . .

Nappa looks down the sight of his gun, pops it apart, then draws a cloth through the barrel. “In what capacity?”

Vegeta racks his own gun. “Professional.”

Nappa sighs, beleaguered. “I just cannot stand to think of some schmuck losing his brains at one of those family restaurants with the knick knacks all over the walls.”

Raditz shakes his head, organizing ammo. “Not a noble way to go.”

“When it's my time, I'm not going down without a fight,” Nappa's saying, clearing his rifle. “I'm taking the bastard with me. My life is way more precious than theirs.”

The sound of a car door shutting has them all turning in their chairs and looking out the window. A single bullet unsettles and rolls, getting stuck in the crevasse that is the new crack in Vegeta's kitchen table.

Outside, a slender blue-haired woman steps out of the car, rounding up something in her arms.

Nappa's head whips around to Vegeta. “Is that the one?”

Vegeta is too busy and important to bother looking. He chambers the round, eyes never leaving his firearm.

Nappa's eyes narrow. He turns back around and watches her stride up her walkway. “She don't look that mean.”

“Don't be fooled.”

“She's too pretty to be a high-profile scientist. And, frankly, she's too pretty to be talking to you.”

The other one disagrees. “The pretty ones are the stupidest.” His long, curly hair falls into his face as he looks down to adjust his sight. “Only a stupid woman would bark up Vegeta's tree.”

“She's not stupid,” Vegeta warns, low and dangerous. Vegeta is suddenly pushing back his chair and heading out the front door. Nappa and Raditz follow, falling in behind him on the porch.

He moves to intercept Bulma. As he takes the stairs, her eyes meet his and she stops, waiting, blueprints in her arms.

“You look like shit today,” Vegeta calls.

Nappa and Raditz gape from the porch.

She gives Vegeta a sharp look of distaste, her lips pursing. “On my worst hair day,” she says calmly, standing as he comes to a stop in front of her, “I look infinitely better than you on your best.”

At a sharp intake of breath, Bulma looks over Vegeta's shoulder and spots the two men on the porch. Her eyes meet Vegeta's. “Oh, look. You do have friends.”

Vegeta moves closer, because he knows they're listening and he wants to make sure the witty, savage, delicious comeback he's reserved for her is heard only by her ears.

A car pulls up to the curb, parking behind hers.

Bulma, clutching her work to her chest, sighs beside him.

Vegeta watches predatorily as a man gets out of the sports car and ambles up the yard, straight for Bulma. “It must be the third Thursday of the month,” she remarks dryly, oblivious to Vegeta's tension. “Hello, Yamcha.”

The tall man smiles. “Bulma,” he greets familiarly.

Bulma turns to Vegeta with an apologetic look. “I'll find you later.”

She pulls away from him, leading the other man up the stairs, who nods with a friendly smile at Vegeta and the two men guarding Vegeta's porch. A look of concern crosses his face, because the three of them don't look _not_ shady at all, but he's polite enough to stay quiet.

Bulma's front door closes behind them.

Vegeta hates the man instantly.

...

The house still smells like spiced apple cobbler as Bulma dries her hands on a dish cloth and follows her dinner guest outside. The sun has set, and the air is crisp and stark. She wishes she'd grabbed a jacket.

Keys in his palm, he walks beside her down her porch steps when they notice her neighbor striding toward his house, duffle bag in hand. Vegeta still drips with sweat, but only sends a cursory, dismissive glance their way. He takes the stairs in one leap and is inside his house in a second.

“Your neighbor doesn't seem very friendly,” Yamcha remarks.

Bulma sighs. “He is supremely unfriendly,” she agrees. She slips her hands into her pockets to keep them warm. She and her neighbor play a game that Yamcha wouldn't understand, a game of comebacks and wounding jokes and inventive criticisms and do-or-die competition. Vegeta is helping her. That's all that matters, in her book.

Yamcha's eyes narrow. “I think he's watching through the window blinds.” He shoots her a look. “Is this guy a creep or what? Do I need to say something?” Yamcha's eyes linger on her expression. “Either that or he likes you.”

Bulma bursts into a snort of laughter. “Likes me?” The laughter burbles up and won't stop coming. “He doesn't _like_ me at all!”

“Hmm.” Yamcha considers. “If anything happens, I'm a phone call away.”

“If anyone tries anything,” she says, “my neighbor will scare them away.”

“Okay,” he says, dissatisfied. “But what if it's your neighbor that can't be trusted? It's just, you're all alone—“

“Bye, Yamcha!” Bulma says brightly, gesturing to his car.

“Yeah, yeah. But all you have to do is call—“

“BYE, YAMCHA!” She grins manically as she waves to prove a point.

“I hear you, I hear you.” Yamcha lumbers to his car, and they wave to each other as he pulls away.

Bulma sighs, wringing her dish towel in unrecognized frustration.

She walks straight over to her neighbor's house. His long grass is dry, crackling from this evening's frost. She knocks once at his door, gets impatient, then turns the knob. It opens.

The house is dark, like usual. The man doesn't have any damn blinds in his side windows, so the cheery glow from her house illuminates the right side of the living room, gilding her hair as she moves through the dark. It's then she notices the light on in the bathroom, just as something knocks in there.

She finds him inside, cleaning out a gash on his eyebrow. The room is humid, like he just showered. He's shirtless but in a clean pair of sweatpants.

She sucks in a breath. “Woo-wee, get in a fight?” She steps into the bathroom. “You're all bruised up.”

He doesn't bother answering.

“I have some leftover roast and potatoes for you, if you'd like.” She leans her hip against the bathroom sink as he rubs ointment into his knuckles. “A token of my gratitude, for helping me with...you know. Cheesecake and apple cobbler, too. I couldn't decide which one I wanted most, so I made both.”

He just stares down at his knuckles, flexing his hands. She frowns. His side has gone purple and swelling. “Vegeta,” she scolds. “How are you going to be in top shape for me if you're going and getting beat up all the time?”

He stills and looks at her then. Watches her as she grabs the washcloth and pats the blood from the skin of his side. As she dips her hand into the glass jar and smooths ointment over the gash. “You're a mess.” She glances up at him.

He looks down at her. “I'm not interested in leftovers,” he says.

She misses the pointed hostility—or maybe refuses to give it validity. “They're not _his_ leftovers, they're _my_ leftovers. And they're not _leftovers_ , anyway. I made you a plate before I even made my own.” She looks up at him.

“Who's the guy?” He can't help himself. It's out of his mouth before it even registers that he's going to say it. If she asks, he'll tell her he needs to know all possible suspects. He wants the dossier on his desk before she leaves.

She sighs again. “My ex-husband,” she laments.

He watches her closely. “Why did he come over?”

Bulma crosses her arms and leans against the sink, suddenly irritated. “He always comes over for dinner on the third Thursday of every month.” She tosses her hand in frustration. “You know what I'm starting to think? That he thinks I can't do it on my own!”

Vegeta's brows pinch in confusion.

“He doesn't think it's a good idea to live on my own, across the city from him and my parents. He wants me to call and check in with him more often. He'd do all my grocery shopping for me if he could. He doesn't think I'm strong enough to do it on my own.” She looks up at Vegeta with her jaw clenched. “But I am!”

“He doesn't want to cut the cord,” Vegeta finally says, grabbing his shaving bowl and brush.

“No, he doesn't,” Bulma agrees. “To be fair, I left him. I can understand he's still adjusting to un-married life. But it's been almost two years! I think it was hard for him, even though he wanted to give me what I wanted: a divorce.” She stares at the wall across from her. “We didn't make a good married couple. But we make good friends.” She looks at Vegeta, who lathers his face. “But friends give each other space, too.” She reaches over to grab the straight razor and leans in, closing the space between them. She gently angles his chin and draws the razor just under Vegeta's jaw. “You missed a spot.”

He watches her discreetly as she shaves him. It's quiet in the bathroom, and she gradually relaxes, lulled by the repetitive action of dragging the razor over his skin. All the world is reduced to their soft breathing, her hand guiding his jaw, the tug of the razor, and the swish of water in the sink when she rinses off the blade. Satisfied when he's smooth, she hands him a towel. “You smell clean,” she remarks pleasantly.

Suddenly he's in her space, his chest filling her vision. He turns to her, wiping his neck and chest off. Her eyes follow the movement. “Think so?”

He watches her blush but try to hide his effect on her. She thinks she's successful. Vegeta knows the truth. This is his revenge. He wins.

“I want something,” he rumbles, looking down into her face. He is close enough that she can feel the heat of his skin from the shower.

Her breath is coming shallowly now. She blinks a few times. “And what's that?”

“Food. Where's the cobbler,” he says, leading them out of the bathroom toward the grub. “You owe me that much. I'm not your damned bloodhound.”

She stays behind in his bathroom, because she needs a minute.

…

Vegeta is in Bulma's house as an invited guest and not a prisoner of war. The house is as nice as it was last time, but he tells her it's every bit of shabby and disappointing as she is. She reminds him that she's the one between him and dinner. Their war doesn't stop him from sitting at her kitchen table and devouring her cooking.

It's getting late. She's taken off her shoes, and in just her bare feet, moves around with complete comfort, dishing them out a slice of cobbler. Coffee steams in front of him.

He'd made the mistake of asking her how her day at work was. She'd spent the last twenty minutes talking about wind shear and payloads, about continuity and cantilevers and deflection.

Vegeta leans back, resting his forearm on the back of the chair beside him.“Remind me to never ask you how your day went again. You're like a villain, monologuing.”

“Is it too difficult to wrap your tiny fighter's mind around?” She slides into a chair and rests her elbows on the table with a smug smile. Wrapping both hands around her coffee, she sips, blue eyes twinkling over her mug. “Catch up, Vegeta.”

His eyes flick over her with insolence, but she knows him well enough now to know that it's playful. She folds her arms behind her head, arching her back, smiling as she stretches. The effort causes Vegeta to double take, but he hunkers down over the last bite of dessert with forced and total focus.

“I have so many questions for you.” She nests her chin in her palm. She hasn't stopped smiling. It's making Vegeta nervous. “One.” She ticks them off her fingers. “Who were those guys at your house?”

“Nobody.”

“Two: What's our next plan of action?”

Vegeta is a neat eater. He sits his plate and fork to the side and leans back. It's strange: Bulma thinks he looks utterly relaxed, and yet he never looks more than a step away from regal and ready to engage. He's like a lion, reminding everyone he's king of the jungle even when he's sunning himself upside down.

“Tomorrow night. We have another path to forge.”

“Oh?” She perks up. “Where are we going?”

Nothing has changed about his posture, but his face tightens. “It's classy. Dress equivalently.”

“You're taking me somewhere nice?” Bulma laughs. “I thought a backroom brawl was as nice as it gets with you.”

“I don't have any complaints from women.”

“Then you haven't been dating any. Vegeta,” she asks him with mock concern, leaning over to grab his plate, “you do know what the opposite sex is, don't you?”

She's rinsing their plates off in the sink. Vegeta doesn't know what's wrong with him. Lately he hasn't been thinking before he acts. It's like someone else has been at the helm, making his decisions for him before he can even weigh in. He puts his hands in his pockets and ambles up behind her, reeled in on a string.

“I'm well versed. Surely you have something to wear tomorrow?” His voice is husky, even to his own ears. He struggles to tamp it out.

“I've got a thing or two,” she promises. “The question is: do you?”

He leans his hip against her kitchen counter.

She shuts the water off and turns. And finds herself cornered. Her backside presses into the cabinets.

“I've got a thing or two.” His voice is low and throaty. “You might be surprised.”

All the sudden, all the heat she's been denying between them is present and heavy. She struggles to catch her breath. Is her neighbor playing games with her? The thought is depressing to consider.

She doesn't realize she's clutching the dish towel in her clawed grip until he gently takes it from her.

“It's ritzy. I trust you're petty enough that you've got a pair of heels just for such an occasion?”

His gaze lingers over her lips. She feels herself flush. Bulma's whole body wakes up in a way it hasn't in years.

“I'm superficial enough to know exactly what I'm going to wear tomorrow night,” she returns, feeling wheezy with nervousness.

Her neighbor is now too close to be anything fraternal. Neighbors don't stand this close. Friends don't look at each other this way. Friends? More like reluctant, shackled enemies. And he's boxed her in, close enough that she can feel heat radiate from him, close enough that she could flex her hand during the weird floating thing it's doing at her waist and touch him. And he's just watching her with smoldering eyes. Like he's king of the jungle, and he's hungry for something blue-haired and snippy. Like he's in control.

But Bulma is not. Bulma aches in places long forgotten. It's been an age since she's been the recipient of a man's regard this way. She's ready to throw caution to the wind. Bulma feels suddenly like unbuttoning her blouse and watching him watch her do it. Bulma wonders what it might feel like to drag her palms over Vegeta's chest and down the slab of his bare stomach. Bulma wonders what it might be like to take Vegeta's lower lip lightly between her teeth, and then suck. These are dangerous thoughts, especially to be having with him just a hand span away from her.

Bulma wonders for the first time if she made a move on her neighbor, if he'd reject it.

“Do you always stand so close to your neighbors, Vegeta?” His name rolls languid over her tongue. She looks up at him from under half-lidded eyes. “Or just me?”

She gets a front row seat the moment it happens. It's the most genuine, unguarded expression she's seen cross his face yet. Recognition lights his eyes first, as he realizes where the mood has gone. And then it's like she's burst a bubble with a pin. His face goes slack, and then he turns away, grimacing.

Vegeta is abruptly pulling away. He's making his way towards the front door. He turns his head over his shoulder but doesn't meet her eyes. “Thank you for dinner,” he says roughly.

The front door knocks shut, leaving her standing alone.

Bulma wonders if she should go lay out tomorrow's outfit, but thinks she might slowly strip off her work clothes and slip her hand down the front of her panties instead.


	5. Chapter 5

. . .

DAY SIXTEEN

. . .

Bulma chews her pen at work. She surveys last night from the objectivity of the next day. When she should be working, she draws a flow chart on her fine blueprint paper. There are lots of divergent thought bubbles. There is a lot of scrutiny and analysis. Eventually there's a bar graph—"Number of Times I've Been Attracted to My Neighbor"—and the frequency is distressing.

Does he feel the same way? Consider the evidence, her analytical side proposes. There were two proximity snafus last night. Not just one. Two! Once, in his bathroom. Again, in her kitchen. And what about the sexual tension in his locker room? His hands on her blouse buttons? Was it all in her head? Had he been the architect of it all, or had chance? Had it been premeditated or improvised? Had she just annoyed him so much that this was now how he sought vengeance, in their little game to one up the other?

Why else would he have just left like that, in the heat of the moment, unless it was to punish her? Or had he had second thoughts? How could it be anything else? Vegeta is too perceptive not to notice that she was about to act on the mood, too deliberate not to have made a cool-headed decision to leave her there panting. Or is she just that undesirable? She balls up the paper and hurls it into the trash can.

She needs to get her head on straight. She has a plant to find in this city, and Vegeta is her reluctant tour guide. Who cares if her enemy makes her hot, when she should be all its antonyms? She has big plans, and she needs both of their brains on board to accomplish it.

But still. Should she act normal? How does she act like nothing has happened? How does she pretend that her feelings are strictly professional? Weren't they? Weren't they professional?

...

Bulma opens her front door and her brain shorts out.

Vegeta stands on her doorstep in a three piece suit. It's cool, dark brown, and its matching waistcoat sports bronze buttons below a bespoke bow tie. He even wears suspenders, and his shoes are shiny. The suit is perfectly tailored to his powerful physique, trim without straining across muscle. She can't reconcile her tee shirt-wearing neighbor with this. It's the most mouth-watering fusion of old era and new, and she just can't stand to think that Vegeta is smart enough to have put it together and smooth enough to have patronized some tailor somewhere. All he's missing is a bowler hat cocked off-center. The asshole would probably look great with one.

He glares at her sullenly as he adjusts his cuff links. He hates this.

"You clean up nice." She's still staring. Eating him up like she's starving.

He just frowns. "Of course I do. I'm me. Are you ready?"

"You're just..."

"What?"

"It's just, I'm—"

"Drooling?" He plucks at his lapel, smirking. "I have that affect on people."

A frown falls flat on her face. "You ruined it."

"Just get in the car."

"You're not going to comment on how I look?" She steps out, pulls the door shut behind her. "I know I set the bar high, but even I impress myself sometimes."

Bulma's dress rides the razor's edge of salacious and elegant. It's an off the shoulder number with a dripping neckline that she thought for sure would get him stuttering. Vegeta's eyes don't drift. His eyes never dip south. Barring last night's mishap, he seems to completely lack the ability to be attracted to human women. She wants to know where his circuit board is so that she can reprogram him.

Since she's not getting the reaction she wants, she tries to at least get pleasure out of making him angry. That's something she can take to the bank, at least. "I do believe," Bulma's saying sunnily as she drifts down her stairs—one, two, three—"that this is our first date." She knows the suggestion will drive him absolutely bonkers, and she's desperate to get a rise out of him. It's her secret shame.

"It is not," he balks.

There's a gasp from the sidewalk. Mrs. Sotamayer, the old retired school teacher. She stares, slack jawed, while her dog pees in Vegeta's yard. Given most of the neighborhood has heard Vegeta and Bulma feud at some point, Bulma's sure it's a real shock to see them together getting along. Bulma smiles. "See? She thinks it's our first date."

"She can't reconcile my lowering myself to your level. Just get in the car."

Vegeta is all business tonight, leading her to wonder if she'd imagined everything that had happened last night. Had the aging process suddenly advanced? Was she now unattractive and senile? Maybe there were adverse effects to the single life that she'd never considered before? She needed more data.

Vegeta's head is in an entirely different place. He's priming her for the night while she wonders what it would have been like last night if she'd kissed him. They are very different people. Bulma's mouth turns down on a sigh.

"We're headed for the Moonlight Sonata. It's a historic building downtown that's been converted into a dance hall. It's owned by the Grand Mistress."

"Oh!" Bulma recognizes the name. "She's our mark tonight?"

He slants his eyes at her use of 'mark,' but continues. "We're not knocking any heads together tonight. Nor," he raises his voice, "are we unbuttoning any blouse buttons."

"Good thing I'm not wearing a blouse," she purrs. "My back zipper should be much easier to undo."

He ignores her. "We seek an audience with the...Grand Mistress."

He's not even scowling at her like usual. And she's needy. Bad attention is good attention at least. "I've noticed a pattern." She watches him, waiting.

"What?" He won't look at her.

"You don't like to give women the respect owed them." Her hand flips palm side up. "Our titles, for example."

"That's not true." He growls in offense, his nose scrunching, and she finds it adorable. She slams her hand on the feeling like it's a bug. "It's simply because I know her real name. We go back. It's a silly title she made up so that she could appear powerful and omniscient to outsiders. You, on the other hand." He shoots her a look. "I just like to make mad, Ms. Briefs."

"When you say we go way back," Bulma plows forward, "what do you mean exactly by, 'we go way back?'" She fidgets as soon as she says it.

Vegeta's expression is indecipherable. She can't tell at all if he thinks she's silly or if he'll answer it seriously or if he sees behind the facade she's building, the one where she wears the mask of a woman who is not interested in a man but is tying herself in knots over him. Bulma only wants to know everything that could be useful to their mission, she tells herself. Like Vegeta's love life.

"Her husband fights," Vegeta finally answers. "Her husband and I were once opponents, when we were younger. Sworn enemies for a time." He pauses. "I grew up, too. Her husband and I now train together. His wife is not our enemy," he cautions, "but not our friend, either."

"Why might she know what's happened to some scientist's invention?"

"Whereas Tien Shinhan is an ex-fighter turned information peddler, her perspective is bigger. She wants money. She has her hands in all kinds of things over the city, including the fights. If there's anyone of notoriety in this city, it's a certainty that they owe her money. And when you owe her money," Vegeta finishes, staring out over the road, "she tends to know your business."

Bulma processes all of this. She fiddles with the ends of her black shawl and looks out the window at the city.

"We're going undercover," he reminds her. "This is reconnaissance. You and I are to act like we're two common people, there for fun—"

"This is going to be hard for you."

"—and then fish as much information as we can from the rumor mill. The Moonlight on a weekend night will be thick with people, many thieves and criminals. Someone there knows something." He watches her. "We observe. We act normal. That's it. Leave the detective work to me."

"I can't imagine you acting normal," Bulma says into the car window.

"I don't want to be normal," he answers gruffly. "Normal is comfortable. Comfort is atrophy. I don't want to atrophy. I want to live."

She observes him with a sad kind of seriousness. "I don't think I'd like you if you were normal, anyway." She turns back to the window. "Where'd the fun be in that?"

He smiles at her, a quick, mercurial thing, but she doesn't see. "We're here," he says, and then slows, drifting the car into a parking garage.

They file up the sidewalk to the doors. "Stick close. Socialize. Turn on the charm, if necessary."

She turns her head over her shoulder and beams at him. Her eyelashes flutter. She's all dimples.

He looks flustered. He stomps it out. He wins. "This isn't an opportunity for you to flirt!"

"Why not?" She grumbles. "It's not like you don't use your job to exploit those tragically misled women fawning outside your locker room. Although I'd hardly call that flirting."

"I never exploit women." He shoots her a disturbed look, like he knows this is verbal quicksand. "They just stand there. I don't encourage it. I only exploit opponents," he corrects her.

They're almost to the door, where the bouncers await.

They match each other's stride. "Don't pretend you don't want those bimbos legs wrapped around your head like a pretzel."

To her surprise, Vegeta's cheeks pinken a little, but his tone is acidic. "Jealous, Ms. Briefs?"

She doesn't want to talk about this. But it's like verbal diarrhea, she can't hold it in. "Aren't you interested at all?"

"No."

"What's that even mean?" She watches him. "All men desire women throwing themselves at them. It's a common male fantasy."

"I just want to do my job," he cuts coolly.

For her own sake, she changes the subject. "Well, I'm sure I can out socialize you." The bouncer is already directing them in, and Bulma goes to tease Vegeta with another flirty smile, but Vegeta is already turning away.

"I'm going to go pay my respects to someone," he says, giving her his back, and her smile falls. He's weaving his way through the crowd, abandoning her to the unknowns and criminals of the Moonlight Sonata before he's even walked her in.

...

Right away, Bulma orders herself a drink. The evening has barely began and she already needs something stiff.

Who needs men? Bulma was reminded of why she was divorced. She knocks back a shot, the premo stuff, and follows it with a glass of vintage red, staring at the long, glittering dance hall on the other side of the bar. The interior of the old building is beautiful. Art deco motifs, dripping chandeliers, stained glass windows, elaborate wainscoting. There's a big band and a dj remixing over the brass and snappy jazz percussion, and there are all kinds of people mingling, talking, dancing, flirting. And here she was in exile, single and senile.

Drinking alone at the bar puts her thoughts into sharp relief. The excitement of the night dulls and clarifies and is now focused pessimism. The scales have fallen from her eyes. She knows now that Vegeta isn't interested in women at all. Not her, not those beautiful bimbos, not even men. He cares for nothing except his own damned purpose. Why did she even care? She'd thought there was heat between her and _Vegeta_ , of all people? Please. She hates him. He is her arch enemy. She'd thought they'd shared something? Some kind of weird, angry attraction? He is still as much of a self-absorbed asshole as ever. And she hadn't divorced one to end up chasing another.

That was unfair to Yamcha. Yamcha had always bent over backwards for her. Vegeta won't bend at all. She makes a moue of distaste, disappointed in herself. Her neighbor is getting the best of her. And why? Why, when her objective here isn't to woo a man but to find her missing project?

A man slides into the seat beside her. "If there ever was a picture of a woman looking forlorn in the dictionary," the man says, leaning his elbow onto the bar, "why, it would be you."

Bulma levels a deeply cynical gaze on the man. Still, she's pouty. "My date left me at the door."

"That's a real shame. Care to dance?"

A smile spreads slowly on her face. "I would love to." She stands. "What do you do for a living?"

The man tries not to stare too long at the neckline of her dress. Good. She'd worn it for a glamorous night out, it deserved _some_ male attention.

"Why, a little of this, a little of that." The man takes her hand, leading her out to the dance floor. "You?"

"I'm a botanist," Bulma admitted. "I study plants all day. Do you garden or own houseplants?"

"Can't say that I ever have," he said as they pressed through the crowd. "Not got much of a green thumb. More like a black thumb. I know a guy who's into gardening, though."

Bulma smiles.

…

She'd forgotten how much she liked to dance. Gosh, she likes to dance! It had just been work, work, work, for way too long. Bulma has lost sense of how long she'd been dancing, but it feels like she's danced for hours, alongside men and women who are all positively fired up and talkative, all of them willing to tell a beautiful woman who'd smiled at them their life stories.

And not a single one knew anything about her plant.

On the other hand, she can't remember anymore why she is mad at Vegeta. Who was Vegeta? Dimly she remembers him as the neighbor she detests. Oh, that Vegeta, she tells herself. What a fuddy-duddy, what a party pooper. She's wasting her precious energy even thinking about flirting with him, when there are so many handsome men in this dance hall who actually like her dress, and vocalize it, in more colorful language.

Now Bulma is determined she can do this by herself. She doesn't need his help. He had gotten her in with Tien Shinhan, and now she had a lead—two of them, actually, between this "Grand Mistress" and Mayor Pilaf—and she could do the rest of the work herself. It was her problem, after all, not his. She doesn't know why she's letting some grouch with a superiority complex whom she barely knows tell her what to do and how to do it. She'll be fine without him. She has luck and passion on her side!

So when her latest dance partner twirls her, for just a moment she faces the outside of the dance floor, and she comes face to face with aforementioned grouch, because that's just her luck. He has checked his coat jacket and stands glowering at her just a few steps away.

Unless he'd lost his jacket in the heat of a menage-a-trois?

Bulma's scowl darkens and she allows her dance partner to reel her back in. Spinning, she catches herself with a palm on his shoulder, the other clutched in his hand.

It takes no less than four seconds for her to be pried out from the stranger's hands and into Vegeta's. "My turn," Vegeta says, and spins her away.

They look like dancers, but they're doing everything but dancing. Hand in hand and stock still, they glare at each other.

"I am doing," she seethes, "exactly what you told me to do."

He growls, the cords of his neck tightening. "You're having way too much fun. We have a greater purpose here, and you seem to have forgotten that!"

She clutches his hand hard enough to bruise, and her eyes spark. "You told me to socialize. You told me to fish. I've been doing that all night! Where have you been?"

"Working another angle!"

Bulma doesn't like the sound of that. Her lips flatten and she turns back to her last dance partner, who's hovering. "He never takes me out dancing, and now he wants to leave! Can you believe that?"

"Gorgeous, I would never treat you like that," the man is falling all over himself. "Whatever you want, you can have it."

"I never take you out dancing," Vegeta says between welded together teeth, "because you drive me crazy!"

"Jealous?" Bulma looks at him coolly under hooded eyes as she throws his words right back at him. "Because I've been in so many men's arms tonight?"

Vegeta looks nearly apoplectic.

Good.

The man is still hovering. "Baby, come home with me!"

"Fuck off," Vegeta growls, whirling her away.

She fists the back of his collar as they resettle from the spin, baring her teeth. "You just _left me here_ in a _den of thieves_ by myself all night," she hisses. "Don't you dare act like I did something wrong!"

Bulma is surprised when Vegeta stays quiet. And then rolls his eyes, and leads her into a dance.

Though his hand rests at her waist and her hand clutches his shoulder, it's strictly business. And while now they move together, they're still glaring at each other. She squeezes his hand hard, hopefully grinding his bones together. His own eyes narrow.

He's got excellent rhythm, unfortunately, and Bulma is both resentful and impressed. But why should she be surprised? An athlete, he is the epitome of power married to grace. Of course he's coordinated. Though, while he dances like he's done the dance a hundred times, it lacks any flair or heat. It's a performance designed to fool the dance hall into thinking they're normal. It's fake on every level and she hates it.

She's tired of his acting, and of his walls. She's still furious with him, and her pride demands penance. She needs sincerity. She needs humility. She needs suffering.

Bulma loops her arm around his neck and yanks him close. Breasts to chest, she looks up into his eyes.

His eyes widen. You'd have to be have a magnifying glass to notice, but by now Bulma is all things a scientist studying the behaviors of this Gordian knot of a man, and, oh, she notices.

"If you're going to dance with me," she says at his shoulder, her breath puffing against his ear, "then give it 100% and do it right," she snarls.

Uncertainty finally rocks Vegeta. His hold on her is a little looser, his rhythm a little irregular. She's deeply satisfied because she's getting to him. It's an addiction.

Her hand runs down his back just to spite him, slides down the plane between his shoulder blades and the crevasse of his thick back to rest where it meets the waistband of his trousers. Okay, so she's testing him a little.

He stiffens beneath her hands, and she swears, his heart rate picks up.

"What did you learn tonight?" It's a husky hum in his ear.

He struggles for dominance. "What did _you_ learn?"

"Plenty of things," she sings, high-handed. "None of which I have to share with you. You go first."

"If we're going to get anything done," he says into her ear, "we're going to need to pool information. You go first."

"I don't have to tell you anything." Her voice rises. "Not when you don't tell me a single thing."

He matches it. "Why are you being so hardheaded?"

"Because I'm considering ditching my current partner in exchange for a solitary gig!"

He looks at her in alarm. "That would be stupid."

She forces them to a halt. "It's a far cry better than being deserted during a job we're supposed to be doing together!" She pulls away, leveling him with a look of pure grit. "This is _my_ rescue mission. Quit dragging me along like a sorry kid and start treating me like an equal partner! I deserve respect just as much as you do! I know you've got _"Doesn't play well with others"_ tattooed on your forehead, but be the better man and make room for me, as it's the wise thing to do!"

Vegeta doesn't get angry right back. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and looks away, as embarrassed as he seems frustrated. "I'm not used to working with others," he explains roughly, without meeting her eyes. "I've been...keeping you at arm's length." His eyes bore into hers. "But the people we're dealing with are crooks and criminals. The less you know, the less dragged into it you will be."

"They pulled me in face first when they stole my work," she counters as people dance around them and glance their way anxiously. Vegeta and Bulma are planted stubbornly in the middle of the dance floor. If the music wasn't so loud, they'd be making a scene. "How am I to keep my head above water if you won't give me information, or your trust as a life raft to hold on to?" She shakes her open palms, imploring him. "Quit underestimating me and start using me like the asset I am." Her hands fist closed between them. "I may not know everything, but I have strengths, and you have weaknesses, whether you admit to them or not. Together we could surely make a formidable team." What did the guy with the forehead eyeball say? Vegeta didn't team up with anyone.

She tilts her jaw up. "Let's form a truce."

They stare at one another with all the stubbornness and pride of two fighters ready to throw fists. She shoves her outstretched hand into the space between them.

"Fine," he snaps, gripping her hand in a rigid shake.

"Fine," she blasts.

They stand there a second as the ink of the cease-fire dries, and then Vegeta slips his arm around her and dances her to the right. "This guy is really annoying me," he grouses, eyes flicking behind her.

Bulma looks over her shoulder and watches the stranger she'd been dancing with get smaller and sadder with distance.

"You always try to spoil my fun," she complains.

His black eyes glint. "I wouldn't have to if you'd ever just stick to the script."

"I wasn't going to go home with him anyway," she explains. "He just knew one of the top wholesale plant sellers in the area."

Vegeta's eyes widen. To his credit, his dancing doesn't falter.

"Don't worry. I'd squeezed him dry of information." She frowns. "It's so aggravating. We haven't turned up any new leads so far."

The band has shifted into something slow and moody. Unconsciously, they slow. Vegeta watches her. "You leave a trail of men's bodies behind you, don't you?"

"All but yours," she sighs. "And I can't seem to scare you away."

The corner of his mouth hooks up."It takes a lot more to scare me."

Eyes gleaming, her lips follow suit. "I can't seem to get you to tell me anything, either. I'm about ready to try more aggressive tactics. "

"It's going to take a lot more effort to win a brawl with me, Ms. Briefs." His eyes warm.

"I'd really like to have a go at you in the ring. Maybe you couch teach me how to fight like you?" Her eyebrows shoot up. "I've always wanted to hit you."

"I don't think you'd like that," he purrs, smirking. "My shirt would be off."

Bulma forgets how to dance. Her right foot does something that feels like it wraps around her left and for a moment Vegeta holds her weight.

"That's not fair," she recovers. "Not when mine has to be buttoned all the way up to my neck."

Their hips rock together indolently. Her fingers knot in his and she realizes what they're doing. Slow dancing. Holding hands. Heat steals into her cheeks.

Vegeta seems to realize it at the same time as she does. He watches her more intently. But he doesn't stop. And he doesn't look away.

Not until they are promptly interrupted by a hand on their shoulders.

"Grand Mistress will see ya," one of two jumbo sized brutes say. The hand squeezes, directing them to a stairwell.

They have no choice but to follow.

...

Once they've been deposited in front of a large, solitary chair positioned to look nothing less stately than a throne, Bulma disappoints her mother by staring.

The woman sitting in it is pure dominatrix.

Dipped in red and black leather with a riding crop in hand, an inky black fall of hair is pulled tightly back from her face. There are a dozen guards in this room, and at her side stands a tall, well-muscled man whose friendly smile is in complete opposition to the look she is going for.

Vegeta knows this woman, so Bulma cedes the strategy to him, allowing him to lead. She positions herself behind his shoulder, but close enough that her arm brushes his back. He seems most comfortable in this position. _See? I trust you_ **sometimes** , she's telling him.

"Vegeta," the woman says, in the most no-nonsense tone Bulma has ever heard in her life.

"ChiChi," Vegeta greets. "Kakarot."

The man at her side gives a cheery little wave, and then leans his weight onto his forearm, resting it on the throne top. "Enjoying yourself?" The man sounds optimistic, like maybe his friend was finally getting out after a rough patch. Bulma suddenly must know more about this rough patch.

The Grand Mistress—ChiChi?—scoffs. "Sneaking around, hunting for something more like it. What are you doing here, Vegeta? You'd only come here on a Friday night with a purpose." She rakes her gaze over Bulma, who stands unflinching under the scrutiny. "And never with a pretty face."

Bulma snorts. "Don't hang out with many pretty women, Vegeta?" She says under her breath.

He shoots her a scowl.

But Bulma's eyes are rounding as a thought dawns.

ChiChi is acting like she hasn't yet greeted Vegeta.

If he wasn't paying his respects to her, then to whom?

"Can we sit down like old friends, or are we to stand here like prisoners?" Vegeta asks, gaze moving over the room.

"Such a drama queen," ChiChi complains, nodding to a guard. Two chairs are brought before them from the walls.

As soon as he's sitting, elbows propped on his thighs, Vegeta starts talking. "Dr. Brief's government project was recently stolen. We have cause to believe that someone running a crime ring in this city is responsible. We're wading through rumors now."

The woman's eyes land on Bulma. This woman is so badass. Bulma recognizes a part of herself in her. Was it too soon to ask if they could be friends? Bulma wants to know where she can get a latex suit like that.

"What was the nature of the project?" She addresses Bulma directly. Bulma appreciates it, woman to woman. Bulma's eyes flick to Vegeta, though, just to make sure. He nods subtly. She doesn't know what's different about this crime boss than the others, but Vegeta must trust her.

Bulma gives her its description without giving too much away—the nerd in her wants to talk for hours about it, but the contract stamped classified does not—and then frowns. "That someone knew of it is alarming enough. There must be a leak somewhere. But that someone wants it? To what end? It has to be recovered, and it has to be recovered without alerting the Defense Department." Bulma clears her throat and colors peevishly. "My job depends on it."

ChiChi stares at Bulma, then hard at Vegeta. She looks up at Goku, who smiles down at her.

"Next time you're in here, introduce yourselves, or I'll throw you out on your asses," ChiChi only says, standing and striding away.

The guards were already crowding them out the door before Bulma could watch her disappear in that latex suit.

…

"It's too cold for that dress," Vegeta's complaining.

Unfortunately, ChiChi had thrown them out without first letting them collect her shawl and Vegeta's suit jacket, so the two of them stride briskly down the street to his car.

"Well, it looks great, doesn't it?" Bulma tries to keep her teeth from chattering. "That's all that matters." Bulma is being facetious, but still. It would have been nice to receive even a single complement from him tonight, or ever.

Vegeta doesn't entertain her. He takes long strides, staring moodily at the pavement.

"Now, if I had something as cool as ChiChi's outfit," Bulma mused, "I'd probably be a lot warmer."

Vegeta sends her a sharp look.

"What?" Bulma hugs herself against the cold. Her feet are killing her. She prides herself on her collection of heels, but dancing in them is a nightmare. "I want one. It's probably easy for her to slip into it, though, because she's so slender and fine boned. I'm a bit...hmm." Her hand gestures from her chest to her hips.

She thinks she hears Vegeta grumble.

They both hurl themselves into the car, teeth clacking together. "Well, now what?"

He's turned on the car and the heat is blasting. She cups her hands and breathes into them.

"I talked to as many people as possible and I didn't learn a thing. Except that crime is sadly more prevalent than you'd think. What are you doing?" Her voice rises as she watches Vegeta unbutton his waistcoat, and then his white shirt. He does it economically, swiftly. He shrugs off his suspenders and tugs his shirt out of the waist of his pants, and then slips out of it and tosses it to her, leaving him in only his undershirt.  
"Put it on," he says gruffly.

She eases herself into it. It's warm with his body heat and smells like him. She toes her heels off and tucks her feet under her hip.

He pulls his suspenders up over his plain tee shirt and begins driving. "We did learn something."

"What?" She eyeballs him. "Not to go to the Moonlight unless we come bearing furs and myrrh?"

"No," he rebukes, though with a small smirk. He pulls something from his pocket and flips it at her. She jerks, grabbing it before it falls into her lap.

"A coin?"

"Kakarot slipped it to me when he escorted us out. It's a pass into the Fighter's Guild, but it's not about the Fighter's Guild. This is a pin in our map." He looks at her from the corners of his eyes. "And we planted the bug in ChiChi's ear. If she hears anything, she'll let us know."

"You must really trust her to work in your interest. She seems completely self-interested." Blue eyes locked on to his. "You two have that in common."

Vegeta smiles at her now, like something's funny and it has to do with her. She feels like she's been hit with a ton of bricks with that smile. How could something so menacing be so devastatingly handsome? If she has to plug her fingers in the corners of his mouth and twist upward just to see him smile again, oh, she will. "She owes me one. I was hired to kill Kakarot once, but I let him live."

Bulma's face goes slack.

Finally, she sighs and looks back out the window. "You lead such a colorful life."

"It's late," he says, almost apologetically, "but it's prime time to stop by the Fighter's Guild real quick and see where it takes us."

"Okay," Bulma only says. "But you owe me a redo on this first date."

Vegeta scowls.

…

As soon as they get to the Fighter's Guild, they open fire.

Vegeta yanks her to him so fast her teeth clack together, shoving her into the cradle of his body as they seek shelter behind a big steel drum. It's too dark to really see, but the bullets are as real as they come. Bulma's palms glue to her ears. Vegeta kneels, lunging forward slightly and cocking a pistol that Bulma is sure he pulled out of thin air.

"Why the hell are they shooting at us?!" She presses her forehead into his hard abdomen. Mouth flattening into a line, Vegeta peels away from her, lunges forward around the corner of the drum, and starts popping shots off.

The other side goes quiet.

He leans back, looking at her. "Look," he says, dripping sarcasm. "They're not shooting at us anymore."

"I don't even want to know where you learned to do that," she grumbles.

His grin is feral. "Primary school, Ms. Briefs."

When no other noises come from the other side of the steel barrels, Vegeta goes to clear the area. After a long minute, he's back. He helps her stand and nods his head in the direction of a box truck.

The men who'd been shooting at them all sprawl on the ground of the Fighter's Guild parking lot. "They're equipped with anti-ballistic armor," Vegeta explains, kicking one's chest. It thumps in response, but the guy doesn't protest. "Saves your life, but the shock can cause you to lose consciousness."

"Of course. Kevlar only spreads the force of the bullet around as it prevents penetration. It's actually quite a painful experience." She winces at the look he's giving her. "We use it a lot in aerospace engineering for its tensile strength, is all."

"Know-it-all," he complains. He frowns down at the bodies. "They're wearing protective armor. They were expecting to be shot at. These aren't ChiChi's men. They must have been someone else's men that she hired to evade questions, or, mostly likely, men that she's spying on."

They stare at the rolling closed door of the truck.

"Whatever they have in there must be worth taking by force." Bulma blinks at the truck door.

Vegeta shoves it up.

Bright light bathes their face, and they blink at the glare.

Hundreds of plants stare back at them.

Bulma gapes. She's pulling herself into the truck abruptly, and Vegeta moves to help her.

Sweat beads at her temples from the heat of the high-powered lighting. She scrutinizes every plant. When she turns back to Vegeta, she shakes her head, eyes wet. "Narcotics," she whispers.

Once back in the car, they're silent.

When Bulma finally speaks, it's forlorn. "Anyone could be after my invention. Tien to extort or buy information. Pilaf for political leverage. ChiChi for its cash value, selling it to the highest bidding regime." She looks at him helplessly. "This is dire. If it's used for personal gain, they put our national security at risk. This was only supposed to help scientists and broaden the limits of space exploration."

She looks sad. He doesn't know what to say to make it better, but he wants to. It's a discomforting feeling.

His voice rolls in the quiet. "All this gunfire is making me hungry. You wanna go get a bite to eat before I take you home?"

She smiles past the sadness at his unexpectedly considerate offer, and nods.

…

It's late enough that a lot of partiers, looking worse for wear, crowd the diner bar.

She and Vegeta don't look much better. She sits in a party dress and a rumpled men's dress shirt, scouring the menu. The sweat from dancing has dried tight on her skin and she smells ripe. She'd be surprised if her eye makeup hadn't bled down her cheeks.

Vegeta smells like gun powder. He doesn't seem to be affected by the cold and he always looks good. It drives her crazy. But he looks troubled. She's not used to seeing him troubled. It makes her uneasy.

He orders a dozen different kinds of protein, and she spends too much time debating crepes or eggs benedict, just to order waffles. She slouches in the booth a little.

Then bolts upright. "If you weren't paying your respects to ChiChi, then who was it?" Her urgency pins Vegeta to his seat.

His dark eyes regard her with surprise, and then bleed over with caution and quick-thinking.

She kicks his shin under the table. "Quit thinking about what lie you're going to tell me and tell me the truth!"

"To another crime boss!" He whisper-yells. "Does that make you feel better?"

"Another one?"

She's so puzzled it's cute. Vegeta sighs through his nose and drops his head into his hand, raking it through his hair.

"Who? And in ChiChi's territory?"

"We have a complicated relationship with this one," Vegeta confides reluctantly.

Bulma looks at him, then looks at him harder. He sighs. They had formed a truce, after all.

"Names Piccolo. He comes and goes as he pleases. Friends, if you'd call it that, with Kakarot, so he's welcome at the Moonlight."

"I have so many questions. Why do you know all these crime bosses? Is Kakarot a bad guy? What's Piccolo's MO?"

"I told you, I didn't used to be such a nice guy." Vegeta takes a draw from his water, rolls the straw paper between his fingers. "Kakarot's as good as they come." Vegeta sounds like he can't stand him. "Sweet enough to make your teeth rot."

"Sounds like my ex-husband," Bulma sighs.

"Piccolo just wants to keep an eye on the city and to be left alone. He inherited his father's business empire. Managing it enables him to do both."

"Why does he care about the well-being of the city?"

Vegeta shrugs.

Bulma taps her lips with her pointer finger, thinking. "There are just so many hands in the pot," she whines.

They sit in tired silence for awhile, until Vegeta straightens from his slouch, folds his arms over his chest, and darts a look at her. "You look good together."

"Beg your pardon?" The cup of coffee stutters on its way to her lips.

"You and your ex." Vegeta twists in his seat, resting his arm on the top of the booth and looking out the window. "You look good together."

Bulma snorts. "That does not a satisfying relationship make, I'm afraid. Besides." Her smoked out eye makeup has grown its territory, and she gleams with sweat. Her curls still hold around her face, but one falls into her eye as she smirks at him. "I look good regardless if he's around or not."

Vegeta snorts back. "As always," he says, resigned, "you're right."

Bulma doesn't have time to freak at his statement because their plates are being placed in front of them. Vegeta dives in. But her brain isn't working. Surely it misheard. She cuts her waffle neatly as if on the dotted lines, and then fills each little indentation with syrup, trying to act normal and not like she is slipping into shock. Like Vegeta, she's not very good at normal. She needs a defibrillator; her neighbor has said something nice about her. Vegeta slides his card to the waitress before Bulma has the soundness of mind to interject.

When he pulls into the driveway, she gets out, her heels hanging from her crooked fingers. Vegeta watches her look up apprehensively at her dark house.

He's taken aback. He imagines it must be pretty unsettling to have your home broken into. A safe bubble that's been popped. Why hadn't he ever considered she might feel unsafe in her own home now? How long had this gone on? He feels... His brows knot with concern. He feels guilt.

His voice is hesitant. "Want me to do a sweep first?"

Bulma nods.

Vegeta clears each room, turning on every light and checking each nook and cranny, until he finally reaches her bedroom. Bulma throws herself back on her bed, a deep sigh escaping from her. She doesn't look like she'll ever get up.

He looms over her. "You'll feel better if you shower before you sleep."

"I know," she says, sideways. She blinks blearily. "It just feels so good to lay here. And not think about all my problems. All my millions and billions of problems." She spreads her arms out wide. His dress shirt slides off her shoulders a little.

Vegeta sits warily on the edge of her bed, grabs her foot, and looks it over. They're dirty, and the skin on the back of her heels is red.

"Why do women do this to themselves?" His voice is a hum, conversational. She wants to bottle this new voice up and put it in her collection. "These shoes demand a lot of unnecessary pain."

"Hm?" She crunches up, looks at her feet. "Oh. Unnecessary pain for extraordinary gains. Why do you fight?" With her exhale, her shoulders sink into the mattress. "Seems like a lot of unnecessary pain."

He grunts in acknowledgment, because they both know if you want something enough to bear the pain, it's necessary.

He surprises her again. With consummate precision, he kneads out each and every sore spot in her feet. She throws her arms above her head, trying not to groan into her pillow.

It should be weird that they've reached a point where they're comfortable enough to do this— _really_ weird—but it's not. They've fallen into some kind of alternate universe, one where they've reached an understanding.

He lays her foot down and stands. "Get in the shower," he orders. He takes a step towards her bedroom door. "And lock your door." He turns and makes his way out of her house.

His hand is closing on the front door when her small hand closes around his, stopping him. He turns to her in surprise and is shocked when her lips press against his.

It's a quick, chaste kiss, but it's delicious, the press of those plush lips there and then already leaving him, and he stands there staring at her for probably way too long after she's pulled away.

She holds the door open for him.

"I'm holding you to that date redo," she says.

She watches him stride with hands in his pockets through the long grass. And smiles.


	6. Chapter 6

. . .

DAY FIFTEEN

. . .

"There's a temple on the east side of town," Vegeta's saying as Bulma crunches cereal. "I think we should visit it today. I know a...person...who works there we could speak to. It would be an easy activity to keep us in pursuit of our goal, a reprieve after a few busy days."

Bulma's oversized pink glasses slide down her nose as she glares up at him, the spoonful of Frosty-O's halted on their way to her mouth. "Why the hell are you up so early, bothering me?"

Vegeta had come knocking at 7:30 on a Saturday morning. 7:30! On a Saturday! After the night they'd had! She was in her fuzzy slippers and her hair was a mess and she wasn't wearing any makeup.

She had squeaked and slammed the door on his face.

The knob had turned and he had let himself in, glancing at her dismissively before making a beeline for the kitchen. "You forget I already have low expectations of you in the first place."

Working with him was a spectrum of wanting to strangle him and wanting to watch him writhe and beg as she strangled him.

"He's a monk," Vegeta is saying now. "They do a lot of side business."

Bulma's eyebrow shoots to her forehead. "The monk runs a side hustle?"

Vegeta ignores her. "Keep up. If we tell him what we know, he may have heard something, or will be in a position to relay to us anything he finds out."

"I'm just having a hard time picturing you friends with a monk."

Vegeta rolls his eyes and the corner of his mouth pulls down, and it makes her smile. "We're not friends." He stands up, pushing in his chair. "I don't have friends, remember?" He reaches out and flicks her glasses off her ear so they fall sideways down her face on his way to refill his orange juice. She glares at him, correcting them.

"Yeah, 'cause you're a bully."

Vegeta's voice comes muffled from inside the refrigerator. "Want to say that to my face? I could leave you here."

She swivels her head over her shoulder, smiling wide. "I didn't say anything," she sings.

…

Ten minutes later and Bulma is still gawking.

When she'd heard the word temple, she'd imagined a Tibetan monastery on the edge of a cloud strewn cliff.

This was like someone had monetized everything vaguely spiritual and was making a killing off of it. Tan, blonde women do yoga next to serene Eastern landscapes. There's a smoothie bar boasting ingredients like buckwheat and maca. The temple also runs a distribution business, employing bike delivery boys all over the city, who port organic, whole food meals to anyone with enough money to brag online about receiving one. She can't decide if it's a shame that there's so much money to be found in the well-being industry or if it's just wickedly smart to milk it.

When she finally meets the owners, she understands.

"Hi, I'm Krillin." Krillin waves. He is both more authentic and more cool than she expected. The monk is short, with a shaved head and some kind of tribal circles tattooed on his head. He's well-muscled, but lean and sinewy like a martial artist. His baseball cap is on backwards and he looks straight out of a streetwear sartorial. His smile is contagious, and he seems genuine and cheerful. Bulma takes an instant liking to him.

The man next to him—with heavy jowls, a striped samurai's kimono, and thick black hair—is his cantankerous partner.

Krillin's voice is apologetic. "This is Yajirobe."

Yajirobe doesn't look spiritual or penitent in any way—he looks like he smells like burger grease, honestly—but she'd later learn he was a prominent martial arts swordsman. She suspected he probably wore a fedora off the clock and messaged women passive-aggressively on the internet, too.

Vegeta seems even more uptight than usual. He keeps shooting daggers at Yajirobe, and Yajirobe won't look at Vegeta. There is something between them, and Bulma can't wait to find out what.

Even Krillin, happy and easy-going, seems nervous around Vegeta, like Vegeta is a live wire that they have to placate to keep from electrocuting all of them. It is definitely just one of many mysteries about Vegeta that Bulma is committed to solving.

After the tour, Krillin leads them into a conference room. As soon as they're seated, the door clicks open, and another tall, skinny blonde appears. This one isn't dressed for yoga class, though. She sports a lilac pant suit and a pearl necklace, and her icy blue eyes settle on Vegeta and narrow.

Krillin stands, holding out his hand. "This is my wife. She works at the university, in the Department of Cybernetics." Krillin says it so casually and without any pretension at all that Bulma knows that he is head over heels for his wife. Her heart squeezes.

Then Bulma's brain stutters. "Excuse me, did you say the Department of Cybernetics? Dr. Juuhachigao?" Bulma stands, holding out her hand. "I'm Bulma Briefs. I work for the Defense Department." Bulma can barely contain her excitement, even though she's trying really hard to maintain a professional sobriety.

"Dr. Briefs," the woman says with surprise. "Call me Eighteen. I've heard so much about you."

Bulma grins. "I just read your paper _'Immersive Prosthetics'_ in the Journal of Futurology!"

"Can we get back to the topic on hand, Ms. Briefs," Vegeta complains behind her.

Over her shoulder, Bulma's look is shoot-to-kill. "I'll talk to whoever I want, when I want."

Krillin and Yajirobe stare open-mouthed at Bulma, eyes bouncing back and forth between them.

Vegeta doesn't erupt into hysterics. He just sighs and leans back in his chair.

Bulma turns the high beams back onto Eighteen. "I just can't believe how close we are to the seamless integration of bionics to an organic framework, and to the day where it might be preferable to have a cybernetic enhancement."

Eighteen's gaze settles on Vegeta. "You definitely understand androids if you're in a partnership with Vegeta."

Bulma laughs. "I was just thinking that he could use a reprogramming!"

Vegeta glances sharply at her, and then sighs again, resting his cheek on his knuckles as if nothing could be less interesting to him in the world.

Bulma's eyes flick over at him. "Unfortunately, we're not here to discuss codified sensory experience."

Vegeta can't believe that she actually sounds disappointed by this, but he appreciates her returning to the whole point of their visit.

Bulma holds out her hand, palm up. "We were just talking to your husband about a project of my own that has been appropriated by someone with ulterior motives. We'd appreciate any clues that may fall into your lap."

"We can keep our eyes and ears open," Krillin promises. "We'll have all our bicycle delivery boys stay vigilant as they make the rounds through the city. But there is one more person you could check in with..."

Vegeta's brows knit. "No."

Krillin laughs nervously. "I know it's not ideal, but—"

"But what?" Bulma looks between the two men.

Vegeta's stares with narrowed eyes at her, nostrils flaring, and then turns to Krillin. "She's not going."

"I'm not going where? Rather, where am I going that you don't want me to?"

"Well, I don't blame you for wanting to sideline Dr. Briefs," Krillin agrees, sending her an apologetic wince, "but it would be a loss if you didn't utilize him for what he is."

Krillin is just a really nice guy. It's plain to see why his wife dotes on him. That's why Bulma's lips turn down when Vegeta turns angrily in the poor monk's direction. Ice blue eyes glint glacially at Vegeta from across the table. Yajirobe slouches even more sulkily. It's clear now that Vegeta doesn't make or keep friends easily. He isn't at all worried about being liked, only about accomplishing his own objectives at everyone else's expense.

"I don't see how any of that man's patrons could know anything about this."

"Because they're gross," Krillin reminds him, "and you need as many eyes on the seedy underworld as you can get."

Vegeta runs his hand through his hair angrily—making the wayward black tufts stand even more on end—and then stands, pushing his chair in with a bit too much force. "Fine." Then he points to Bulma. His teeth are grit. "But you're not going!"

She opens her mouth to argue but he interrupts, walking toward her. "Nuh uh. No. Don't even argue with me about this. I said you're not going. You're sitting this one out."

Frowning, she stands and begins to counter when he slides his hand at the small of her back and claps a hand over her mouth. Slowly, he angles his chin down so that he is staring at her under angry slashes for eyebrows. "No," he enunciates clearly.

…

"Yes!" Bulma grins wildly. "Do you see this?" She presses the magazine into his face.

Vegeta bats it away. The pink hasn't left his cheeks since they'd pulled up to the place. "Focus, Bulma," he chastises, but his voice is tight with embarrassment.

It's not fair—he's not focusing, either. "Don't be such a prude," she admonishes, tucking the porno mag back into its spot. "Live a little."

"How long will your life last once the government finds out their million dollar project has been stolen from your home because you didn't have proper security measures to guard it?" He turns his nose up as he surveys everything in the room but the contents. "Fifteen days and counting down."

"You're such a buzzkill," she mutters.

And he had been since she'd hopped into his car and buckled her seat belt, announcing she'd be going on any trip that had anything to do with the recovery of her invention. Because they were a team now, not a dictatorship. She operated a la carte blanche. She didn't care how dirty they had to get. She'd do whatever it takes.

He'd seethed and brooded all the way here. And when they'd pulled up to the old cinema that announced in red and gold cursive, "Porno Palace," he'd gotten even more bitchy.

Bulma peels away from him and ambles around, looking at the toy selection absentmindedly as she considers all the ways in which the players of the city were tied. The guy behind the counter has told them he'd be right back with the man they were looking for. Vegeta is so wound tight that he hasn't moved from his place at the counter, refusing to look at anything but an imaginary spot on the wall. She watches him from over the rack of latex bodysuits.

Evidently the man they are waiting for is the owner of this seedy establishment. From what she could register from the signs—because Vegeta isn't telling her anything—there's a "gentleman's club" behind the wall of the counter. There are also plenty of patrons flowing through the doors despite the early afternoon. As if just to spite Vegeta, it looks like this Master Roshi runs a pretty popular joint.

Bulma rifles through the racks when she hears her name. When she looks up, Vegeta is looking at her like he is coming apart at the seams. Like if she doesn't stop touching the merchandise, steam might escape from his ears and sprockets spring out of his chest. An old man in a Hawaiian shirt watches her from behind red rimmed sunglasses.

When she sidles up to them, Vegeta won't look at her.

"Well, hello. I'm Roshi," the old man warbles, holding out his hand. Bulma concludes as she watches his slimy grin stretch his bearded face that he is an absolute lecher.

Vegeta smacks her hand down when she goes to shake Roshi's, then moves in front of her. Bulma makes a face.

"Get to the point, old man!"

"There's no need to get possessive, boy," Roshi assures him, adjusting his sunglasses. "It's only a handshake. Let's go somewhere private, though, eh?"

Vegeta is talking through clenched teeth. "Absolutely not—"

"Lead the way," Bulma interrupts cheerfully, gesturing with her hand. With her other hand, Bulma pulls Vegeta along by his forearm.

They head through the velvet purple curtains into the belly of the Porno Palace.

The hallway stretches out ahead of them, rich red with gold trim. She lets go of Vegeta's arm. All the doorways are adorned in velvet curtains. They pass one with the curtains pulled back and Bulma peeks in. Several performers dance sinuously on the stage. Men lounge on couches, smoking cigars. One guy follows a woman around, waving cash. Bulma's nose wrinkles. They pass a few topless dancers, who are too busy gossiping to spare them a glance, as well as one man in nothing but a g-string and cowboy boots. Vegeta keeps his eyes on the end of the hallway looking like he'll brain the first person who looks at him. It's an existential crisis, probably. If someone sees him, than he can't deny that he's actually here.

Roshi stops at the end of the hall and gestures into a room, allowing them to go in first. Unaware, Bulma passes, and Roshi's eyes drift to her bottom. His view is eclipsed by Vegeta, who has moved into his line of sight and just stares, nostrils flaring. Roshi laughs nervously and waves him into the room.

A few spacious, velvet-cushioned booths line the sides of the room, velvet couches cocked to and fro between them. At one end is a stage, and at the other end, a bar. There's a single bartender, and no other occupants in the room, but the bartender doesn't crack a smile as they walk in. He nods his head to the booming music. He is shirtless.

Vegeta crowds her into the booth and sits way closer than she imagines he would if he wasn't so mistrustful of Roshi. Just as the bartender sits their beers on their table, the curtain peels back on a stage, and a long-legged woman in very little clothing begins seducing them to the rhythm of the music. It's loud and booming enough that it should prevent them from being overheard, and Bulma assumes that's exactly what Roshi had in mind.

"So what brings you here? Can't say I've ever had the pleasure of serving you." Roshi is trying for professional, but "pleasure" is stretching it, even to Bulma's ears. Yet another antagonistic relationship between Vegeta and someone. The guy really needs a PR rep.

Vegeta puts his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers together. He doesn't give Roshi the weight of his gaze; instead, it lingers on the booth behind the old man. "We're missing a houseplant. We want you to listen in on your clientele's conversations and report back to us if you hear anything."

Bulma tries not to wince. If that was Vegeta's idea of brokering a deal, he needed a lot more practice.

Roshi blinks behind his sunglasses. "Missing a houseplant? It must be pretty important then, if you're searching for it." It's an open-ended question. Waiting for Vegeta to fill in the blanks. Suggesting, maybe, that Vegeta doesn't do anything for anyone unless for a very interesting reason. Suggesting that anyone putting themselves on the line for it might want a justification for why.

The air tenses. "Yes."

It's both an answer and not one. Bulma's mouth pulls down with anxiety. He's not going to get Roshi to help if he keeps this up.

Roshi's lips thin.

Bulma smiles wide at Roshi, turning the ol' Bulma Briefs charm on. "How long have you ran the 'Porno Palace?" She struggles to keep from stumbling over the name and takes a draw of her beer.

"Oh, a few years now. I decided I didn't much like living so far from the real world and so I moved to the city. Used to live on an island. Once my boys left, it got lonely."

"Ah." Bulma's face lights up with interest. "Do you do a lot of business?"

"You'd be surprised by how many people in the city want a place like this to relax," he answers proudly. "Meet people. Hang out."

"With all of this traffic, it shouldn't be too hard to keep your ears open." She smiles, a comrade. "It actually requires very little effort on your part."

Vegeta's arms are crossed and he's looking across the room sullenly. Bulma gets it. He hates that he can't just find the damn plant by himself. He hates that these are his allies.

A group of strippers on their way out the door slow, eyes landing on Vegeta. They smile, ask him how he's doing. He doesn't even look at them. He is as cold and impenetrable as a glacier.

Bulma watches him carefully as they walk away.

"Maybe you two could go undercover here?" Roshi suggests as Bulma takes a swig. "She'd make a great performer," he points at Vegeta, "and you could disc jockey!"

Bulma nearly spits out her beer.

"No," Vegeta shoots down.

Bulma considers.

"No!" Vegeta snaps at her.

"How likely is it that someone who visits the Palace would know anything? Would we have a better chance if I were here?" Bulma ponders.

"Don't even entertain the notion. It's completely unnecessary, and he's just conning you," Vegeta fires off, baring his teeth at Roshi.

For the life of Bulma, she can't figure out just why Vegeta feels so threatened by the old guy. Obviously she's not interested in him sexually. Obviously a man as sensual as Vegeta couldn't be a prudish, sinless virgin, blushing at the sight of s-e-x. So why is he so wound tight? He sits straight-backed in the booth, seething menace.

"How good are you at dancing?" Roshi is asking her.

Bulma smirks and glances at Vegeta, refusing to leave the opportunity to get under his skin. "I'm even better at dancing when I'm taking off my clothes piece by piece."

Vegeta's hand grips her knee under the table, hard.

They glare at each other.

A group of strippers distracts Roshi, who turns to say hello and crack a joke. Topless, with big feathers adorning their headbands, they all laugh at Roshi's bad joke, and Vegeta uses the opportunity. His head whips to hers and he presses his mouth against her ear. "Stay on task!"

As his PR rep, she is deeply insulted. "I'm trying to close the sale, and you keep scaring him away!" Bulma's head tilts to the side to glare up at him. They're so close they're nose to nose.

They realize it at the same time. Time seems to slow; the world narrows. It's just her and him, close enough that if they tilt their heads just slightly, their lips would touch.

They pull away at the same time.

"Stay focused," he demands stiffly as Roshi guffaws at something the stripper says.

"I have been this whole time," she argues. Heat's coloring her cheeks and she stares straight ahead. "You're the one failing to."

Vegeta hasn't touched his beer. His jaw locks.

Here at the Porno Palace, she's starting to understand how Vegeta ticks. He is a man that prizes his dignity and pride over everything else. Every discomfort, every inconvenience galls him, because he wants to be treated with the utmost respect. They might both be opportunistic, but she was more adjustable. Everywhere they have to go on this quest for her plant, they're humbled. Every lead they have tests him. She fights the urge to put her hand on his shoulder in support.

She looks at him sympathetically. "Uncomfortable?"

"I've wasted way too much time in places like this," he complains. "I'd hoped I was done with them."

She stills. "You used to visit these kinds of establishments often?"

He shoots her a sour look. "Not for pleasure," he says with sharp distaste. "On business." He keeps his eyes on the booth behind Roshi. "You meet a lot of...people...here."

What does he mean? He's giving out information about himself; she has to keep him talking. "Other gang members?" A smile flashes briefly on her face. "Business clients?"

Vegeta's eyes go dark. "Or targets."

"Like I was saying, son," Roshi says, turning back to them and adjusting his sunglasses, "I can't be asking my customers about their personal lives. Respecting their privacy is implied."

Vegeta makes a disgusted sound. "Spineless."

"Vegeta!" She admonishes. "That's no way to talk to someone who you're asking a favor of!" She turns to Roshi, her tone conciliatory. "You don't have to ask anyone directly. Just keep your ears and eyes open. Talk to your employees about listening for key words, like 'plant' or 'scientist.' Those should be pretty atypical and easy to pick up," she encourages. "You've got a large staff, bartenders, cashiers, dancers. You're friends with a lot of the ladies here!" She wiggles her eyebrows. "If you hear something, just send word to Krillin. There's no risk involved in it for you.""

Roshi strokes his beard, pondering. "I guess I can do that, honey."

Bulma doesn't have time to feel accomplished, because there's a new performer on the stage. Bulma's mouth parts and she stares. "Oh, my."

A guy with more muscles than she can count has replaced the woman dancer and is now grinding his underwear off.

"Oh." Roshi glances behind him. "We have male performances, too! You should visit sometime!"

Vegeta pulls her out of the booth before the man's underwear can hit the floor.

As she and Vegeta make their way to the front door, Roshi calls out. "If you ever get tired of being a scientist, you've got a position available here, sweetheart! And if you ever get tired of Vegeta—"

Bulma turns to look back at him as Vegeta yanks her out the door.

He stops her outside the front door and closes the space between them, staring down with grim determination. "No," he says firmly.

"Okaaaay," she sighs.

...

Their forays to the Temple and the Palace have cost them much of their day. By the time they get back home, Bulma's stomach is grumbling and the world is darkening, a storm brewing to the south. It isn't cold enough to snow, but it's threatening a downpour that will strip the trees of the last of their leaves. The scent of rain on concrete infuses the wind.

She turns to Vegeta to tell him she's hungry, but he's already grabbing his duffle bag from the back seat. "I'm going to go to the gym," he says crisply.

"Okay?" She stammers.

Her feelings are hurt. It's stupid. She squashes them down inefficiently.

Vegeta had been pounding the pavement, already at the end of his neighbor's property line as she closes the car door, but he pivots and jogs up to her. In one quick movement, he pulls his keys out of his pocket, grabs her hand, and slaps them into her cupped palm. Then he pulls a twenty from his billfold and slaps it on top of the pile of keys in her palm. "Go grab a pizza from down the corner. Tell them I sent you. I have a tv. Watch it. I'll be back in an hour."

Bulma watches him wide-eyed as he jogs down the street.

"Okay?" She has been so shocked and exhausted by recent events she can probably only utter one word ever again.

She walks up his porch steps. It's surreal. This is what it feels like when he walks up the steps each evening, she thinks. She looks over at her house as she nears the door, imagining what he sees. He didn't tell her which key, so she slides each key into the lock and turns until she finds the right one. Her fingers run over each metal piece, imagining his fingers doing the same. When the lock clicks and the door opens, Bulma feels like an invader, breaking in.

His house is quiet and bare as ever. The living room has one thrifted couch, a well-worn coffee table, and a tv on a tv stand that looks like it might have been picked up from a curb. Her shoes echo on the wood floor.

Bulma makes her way back out the front door, careful to lock up. She walks down his walkway, under the leaning, rotting arbor with the overgrown vines, and makes her way down the street.

When Bulma arrives at the pizza place, the bell chimes behind her. She doesn't know what kind of pizza he likes. She orders the one with all the meats, feeling satisfied, but almost forgets. "And, uh, Vegeta sent me."

The woman behind the counter stops everything she's doing and blinks rapidly. "Vegeta sent you?" She repeats. Her voice is rough from years of chain smoking, and she stares at Bulma through lidded eyes. Her eyeshadow is pastel blue, and one eyelid hangs lower than the other, giving her a perpetual squint.

Bulma wonders if she needs proof or something when the woman goes back to ringing her up, sniffing. "Didn't know Vegeta had a girlfriend."

Bulma laughs nervously. "Oh, we're not dating." She waves her hand back and forth dismissively. "We're just neighbors." Her tone is perky. "We actually hate each other."

The woman stops what she's doing again and stares. "Yep," she says, handing Bulma her change. "That sounds about right to me."

The woman leaves her at the counter and Bulma notices the discount added on the receipt. Her eyes narrow. "Mysterious bastard."

By the time he shows back up, Bulma's kicked her heels off and watches an evening talk show. She's locked the door behind her—just to be safe—and so she peels herself off the couch and unbolts the door.

Then she cracks it open, smiling. "Whoooo is it?"

Vegeta stares back at her, unamused. "Open the door."

"I don't think I know you," Bulma muses. The wind snaps through the gap, smelling of rain and ozone.

"If you don't open this door right now—"

"What are you going to do?" Bulma goads him.

His hand snakes through the crack and she dodges, shrieking. It's just the opportunity to slip in, and then he's throwing her over his shoulder. She yells in surprise but he's already dumping her on the couch, the front door slammed shut behind them. By the time she untangles herself from the couch the bathroom door is already closing.

She can't believe he did that. Her heart races, and a stupid grin won't leave her stupid face. She stomps to the bathroom door and pounds her palm on it, making sure he can hear her over the shower. "I'm going to eat all this pizza if you don't hurry up."

The door is flung open and Vegeta stands there, smirking, because her eyes are fastened to the too-tiny white towel tied at his naked hips.

She can't seem to meet his eyes anymore. But she's trying, really hard.

"Eat all the pizza and die," he says.

"I'm willing to take that chance," she says with her hands now clapped over her eyes.

"That doesn't surprise me a bit," he says, peeling her hand from her face. When she squints at him through one eye, he places his towel in her hand. Which means... She drops it spastically and he laughs, shutting the door on her.

She can't wait for him to be done. When he finally comes out, he sits next to her on the couch, smelling like soap, and they both grab a slice from the box on the coffee table.

"What are you watching?" He eyes the tv.

"Talk show. Why does the pizza shop give you a discount?"

"I told you. I'm special."

They're close enough that her folded legs brush his thigh. "Everyone knows that's a lie. How do you know Roshi and Krillin?"

"Krillin used to be part of the fighting circuit as well. Roshi had a hand in training Krillin and Kakarot when they were kids."

Bulma's face scrunches up."I don't know that I'd want any children near Roshi." A peal of thunder shakes through the house.

"Krillin and Kakarot were both orphans." Vegeta explains clinically. "If I recall correctly, and I really don't care, Krillin plied Roshi with a suitcase full of vintage...magazines...to get him to train him. Highly resellable, but he kept them for his own collection." Vegeta says it with such disdain that she wonders whether he disagrees with the content or Roshi's business decisions. Everything is so beneath him. "Krillin used to be a lot more conniving. Now he's nice." He says the word like it's a disappointment.

Bulma's slice of pizza stops on her way to her mouth, corner of her lip curling up. "Don't tell me you were an orphan, too. How'd you convince your master to train you? With a suitcase full of ammo?"

Bulma's teasing, but at the way Vegeta goes smooth as stone, she knows.

"I'm sorry," she says raggedly. Her stomach hardens. "That was an asshole thing to make a joke of."

"Wouldn't expect any less from you," he says quietly, grabbing another slice of pizza.

The curtain pulls back on the rain and it slams into the house in a sheet, pounding the windows. She lays her hand awkwardly on his forearm, watching him, waiting for some sign that he hates her or forgives her. She feels terrible. Bulma recognizes her own privilege—her parents are alive, happy, engaged and supportive—and feels sick with it for the first time.

"You didn't train with Roshi, though?" She asks quietly.

"No." His answer is complete, hard. "I didn't get that lucky."

Bulma puts her pizza down on the pizza box lid, wipes her hands off with thin napkins. She's torn. She feels so bad to bring it up, but he's doling out answers, and Bulma needs to know. Her parents must have busted through the doorway of an ancient pharaoh, because she is c-u-r-s-e-d."Who had the privilege of training you?"

He turns to her slowly. His eyes bore her. They demand truth. But his face is impassive, stony. It hides truth. "Why were you wearing glasses this morning?"

Her hand is threading through his hand without thinking about it. "I was going to work down in my lab. I'm a little far-sighted is all. Vegeta, I'm sorry I asked." Her voice drops to a hush.

"Ms. Briefs, are you apologizing to me right now?"

"Yes," she whispers.

He squeezes her hand and then lets it go. "Don't. What happened, happened. It made me who I am today. And I'm not ashamed of myself." He looks at her carefully. "I'm proud." Don't take that away from me, he's saying.

I would never, she's thinking. "You should be." She stands, and he's watching her carefully. Will she run? Did it get too personal? "Where are your spare blankets?" She's moving to his hallway, opening up a narrow closet door.

Moths may have well flown out. There's nothing but a bottle of cough syrup and a thin white towel. "Good gracious, Vegeta." She frowns. "Do I need to set you up a gift registry?"

He's been whipping out a relentless pace. Almost a week of following leads, dead ends, and spreading spies around, all atop her work schedule. Bulma is tired. Really, really tired. She scoops up one of the blankets and pillows from his bed and shuffles back to the living room. Vegeta watches her as she plops back down on the couch. She tucks the pillow against the couch arm and lays down, tossing the blanket over her legs and Vegeta's lap.

"Presumptuous much, Ms. Briefs?"

"Doctor." Bulma eeks out a yawn. "You're a slave driver. I'm wrecked."

"I'm the slave driver? I can't learn enough, fast enough for you."

She stretches her legs out over his lap. "What do you have against Yajirobe?"

She feels the tension without taking her eyes from the tv. "Besides that he's a lazy waste of space with a bad attitude?"

"You have a bad attitude," she points out.

Vegeta's voice drips disgust. "There's a difference between being a hard working realist and being a couch potato who expects everything handed to him."

"I thought he was a master swordsman, though."

Vegeta stiffens even further.

She cranes her neck to look at him. "Am I hitting on every nerve tonight, Vegeta?"

"You're too goddamned curious." It's a sharp complaint, but it's got the hint of a long suffering affection.

"You're one giant raw nerve. But I'll try to shut up," she teases. "I can't promise you anything."

"I wouldn't put money on it if you had to do it to save my life."

She mushes his face with one of her bare feet. He snatches it and drops it, but rests his hand on her ankle.

"Take my bed, I'll sleep on the couch," he's saying, but she doesn't answer, because they know if she does they'll separate for the night, and they're not ready to yet.

They watch tv until she falls asleep on his couch.


	7. Chapter 7

. . .  
DAY FOURTEEN  
. . .

She's woken up by a phone ringing. Vegeta's in the kitchen, but whatever he's saying to the person on the other line is too quiet for her to hear. She blinks groggily. Vegeta's low tone puts her back to sleep.

Out of the fog, a hand is on her shoulder. “I have somewhere to go. You can stay, if you want.”

Indolently, she stretches, and with a sigh, curls up deeper into the blankets. She hears a door close.

Bulma wakes up alone in Vegeta's living room. The pizza box sits empty, grease stained, on the coffee table. A crocheted blanket falls around her hips as she sits up. She hadn't imagined last night.

She peeks in his room. The bed is made and empty. The morning sun pours in from all the windows that have no blinds.

Bulma folds the blanket and lays it beside the pillow she's fluffed on his bed. Locking the front door behind her, she pads down Vegeta's stairs. An old woman walking her dog stares at her. She recognizes Mrs. Sotameyer and waves. The woman comes to a full stop in confusion.

Without anything end-of-the-world that has to be done, with Vegeta who-knows-where, Bulma has Sunday to herself.

She doesn't know what to do with herself. She does her laundry, and cleans her kitchen and bathroom. She waters her plants and cracks a book. She closes the book impatiently. And feels helpless and restless again. Vegeta's pace may have been breakneck, but it had given her a sense of purpose and filled the time. Now every minute that passes is a minute she had been robbed of a year's work, that the thief remains out there, unpunished. Another minute she'd had something taken from her, a piece of her, that she wants back. She sighs through her nose.

At the end of their marriage, Yamcha had often accused her of spending more time on her work than their relationship. And he wasn't wrong. Bulma was a workaholic. She was a renaissance woman, with her fingers in too many pies. All of her energy was funneled into researching and experimenting. Yamcha wanted a family, he wanted stability. Bulma wanted to spend the night in her lab.

Their separation had been a long time coming. They had drifted, they had different goals. Their divorce was amiable. After a year figuring things out, of living with her parents, Bulma had felt so powerful buying her own house. It was the first time she'd been on her own. But it was lonely sometimes.

Bulma turns the light on in her lab. She looks out over it. Impotent. Right now, she's not doing anything to help. She is off and misplaced without Vegeta around, haunting her, grumping over her shoulder.

Bulma slides into her desk chair, plucks a sharpened pencil from the jar, and starts sketching on some errant paper.

_Tien—wants information_   
_Pilaf—wants political clout_   
_ChiChi—wants money_   
_Kakarot—a friend, no allegiance—or to his wife?_   
_“Piccolo”—?_   
_Krillin—a fitness guru, ties to Kakarot and Roshi_   
_Yajirobe—Vegeta really doesn't like this guy_   
_Roshi—porn collector, Krillin and Kakarot's fighting “master”_

She chews the wood of the pencil.

_Vegeta's “master”—???_

Vegeta had acted like he'd grown up with a “master,” some kind of martial arts trainer, but that it hadn't been all sunshine and rainbows. His recounting it had been bitter and painful, even though he hadn't told her anything at all. Whoever it was, Vegeta didn't feel thankful to them.

Bulma stares down at the paper.

_Vegeta_

She likes writing his name. It flows, an organic arc from V to G to A. Her own handwriting makes it look even better.

But what were Vegeta's motivations?

Why was Vegeta going all this way to help her?

_Vegeta—???_

Bulma might have a soft spot for Vegeta—a fact she'd admit only screaming into a pillow—but she was a pragmatist, too. He wasn't doing this out of the goodness of his heart. That isn't in character with the man she knows, who operates only for his own interests. So what does she really know about her neighbor?

He's a fighter for the underground circuit. He's beautiful when he fights, refined danger and power. It leads her to believe he's been doing it for years. Given yesterday's conversation about trainers, he'd had a mentor at some point, one for whom there was no love lost.

He's well-informed and connected, but resists the friendship of everyone. He has some rough looking cohorts, and in the past, as far as she could glean, no moral scruples. Why would everyone else work with him if they didn't like him? What's in it for them? Or does everyone in this city owe him a favor and a discount? What is _up_ with that?

He keeps a bare house. Why? Does he not care about furnishing it, or does he not make much money? She could believe that backroom fighting doesn't pay a lot, so that's plausible. Or is he just disinterested in showing off his wealth? Vegeta has Priorities and Not Priorities. Domesticated life could understandably be very low on his list. So what are his Priorities?

Her pencil scratches paper as it hurries to catch up to her thoughts.

Fighting. Vegeta spends a lot of time at the gym, training. Is that where he could be found through the work week? It's anecdotal evidence, but she's starting to suspect he works out when he feels out of control. She sends him on a tail spin at least once a day, and soon afterward, he's bolting for the gym doors. Is training the only thing he actually likes to do, besides pester her? As far as she knows, training occupies every second of his life that they're not together. Why? What does it give him emotionally? What are his ambitions, his goals? Why does he need to win so bad?

Conclusively? Vegeta reserves his passions for very few things, and believes that one should only spend their time and energy on things that matter most.

So why did he spend so much time helping her find her godforsaken project?

Unless he was actually a player in the game, too?

Bulma's pencil stills.

He's admitted he'd had a hand in some questionable stuff in the past. He knows a lot of criminal entrepreneurs and disreputable people. Maybe he was poor, and he was tired of being poor, or he was offended that he had to live this way and wanted to change his circumstances? Would he stoop to letting an innocent woman lead him to his salvation, and then take the prize from her?

Her brows knit together. It might be stupid of her—it was real stupid of her, get real—but she's having trouble believing Vegeta would double-cross her. She doesn't think her judgment of character is all _that_ bad. Vegeta might have had a troubled early life, but he isn't a bad person. He might not be polished or “normal,” but if he was guilty of that, so was she. At the end of each night's descent into madness seeking her project, she never felt taken advantage of. And that would be the tell, wouldn't it? She didn't feel like she was being used, she just felt twisted up in a heap of the truths he concealed and deflected. Vegeta is withholding, but he also abides by the spirit of brutal honesty and realism. She trusted that on principle. Besides, Vegeta isn't slimy like a bad guy at all. He could actually be sweet. That one she'd hyperventilate into a paper bag before she admitted.

But Vegeta had to have some reason to help her. It couldn't just be because she pestered him to. Maybe he just wanted to unravel the mystery for the sake of solving it? She shook her head. That was her own modus operandi. He wasn't along for the ride. He didn't take a backseat. He was a leader. He had to have a motive, too.

Did she need to watch her back?

Was the man she was being led deeper and deeper into trouble with out to sabotage her?

She erased the question marks. She really only knew three things about Vegeta, which she'd lifted from evidence and experience.

_Vegeta—handsome, mysterious jerk_

…

Bulma finds her way to her bedroom in the dark. It's a proper metaphor for her life right now. She's wasted all evening in her lab coming to not a single exciting conclusion, and now she's going to take a shower before mentally preparing for Monday morning. No time at all until she has to field her boss's questions about progress on her project. Time is circling right down the drain. She is used to getting what she wants, and she is not getting anything she wants. She has to accept that, with Vegeta's help, she is making progress, when what she really wants are results now.

She strips her shirt off, shoves her pants down, and tosses them both into her basket in her bedroom. She has her finger on the light switch when she sees a light tick on in Vegeta's house.

Bulma's bathroom blinds are turned open. On this side of his house, Vegeta has no blinds at all. Leaving the light off, Bulma slips to the side of the window, the window sill cool against her thigh. She presses close enough that the window blinds brush her forehead.

And waits.

It's his bathroom light, she realizes. Did he just get home, or has he been home awhile? The bathroom is empty, the tile grout discolored. There's a white towel hanging haphazardly, and the mirror frame is tarnished silver. He steps into the room. He's wearing sneakers, so he must have just gotten back.

He grabs his hoodie from behind his head and pulls it over his head, tossing it into the corner. It leaves him bare chested, and Bulma's mouth parts. She's seen it before, but it never gets old.

Tiredly, he runs his hands through his hair, nails on scalp, causing his biceps and chest to flex. She blows air out her lips.

Vegeta, Hated Neighbor, sits on his toilet lid to untie and toe off his sneakers. Even the sides of him are rippled, lean. And then he stands, hooks his thumbs in his waistband, bends a little at the waist and pushes his pants down.

Bulma throws a hand over her mouth.

He is fully on display.

Vegeta turns and yanks the faucet down. The shower spray stutters on. All she sees through the tunnel vision are strong, round glutes and a tapered, muscled back.

“Ohhhh, Bulma,” she whispers. “You're a bad, bad girl.”

Her heart is a crowd crushing against her chest. She feels like, at any moment, he will turn and look directly at her and say, “Got you.” It will be another tally on his scorecard. But there's something wrong with her. She can't stop.

Unaware of the crisis he is the focus of that takes place just a stone's throw away, he steps in over the low lid of the shower floor and grabs the bar of soap. She watches him run it back and forth over his chest and stomach, his hands following it up over his arms. Bulma is emitting something like one long squeak now. It's the sound of a woman who knows she's going to be in a lot of trouble when this is all over.

Then his hands lather soap and dive into the junction of his hips. She gasps.

She thought her impression of him could never be repaired after his fight, but this makes that look like a primary school crush. This is driving into a wall of desire at top speed. There is no way she'll ever be able to look him in the eye again. She will have to tag along following leads while constantly staring at the ceiling, at the ground, anywhere but him.

After he rinses the lather from his thick hair, soap trailing in slow suds down his stomach, he's slamming the faucet off and stepping out.

She cannot believe that life has become so complicated and grim, and all she wants to do is watch this man undress.

She yanks open her blinds, pushes the window open, and leans out. “Of all the rude, shocking, and uncivilized things you've done, Vegeta, this one takes the cake!”

Not even seven Bulma steps and six Vegeta steps away, between an invisible wall and a strip of shared yard, Vegeta pauses drying his hair with the towel long enough for Bulma to hold her breath with anticipation. Then he moves forward. He doesn't even bother trying to cover himself, just leans out the window with the towel over his shoulders, giving her a disbelieving look. She knows under the windowsill press the naked crease of his hips.

She's got one hand on the windowsill and the other holding the trim, her hair tumbling in the breeze.

He looks her up and down, to make a point. “I could say the same of you.”

Bulma remembers then as the cool air hits her that she is nothing but a bra and panties.

“Oh,” she says, blushing furiously, “don't turn this around on me! I have a right to be in my own bathroom, unaccosted by my neighbors eyes—a neighbor who really ought to have blinds on his damned windows!”

“And here I thought that applied to me, too. _Projection_ ,” he declares snidely, mimicking her know-it-all comments. “ _The act of denying one's impulses or behaviors while attributing them to others._ ” His grin is absolutely nefarious. He seems to be enjoying this whole exchange, and she can't figure out why unless it's because he loves to see her absolutely unhinged. It makes her even more mad.

She leans back, huffing. “You really ought to be ashamed,” she says.

“Should I?” He's about as happy as she's ever seen him. He is basking in her meltdown. He wins.

“I'm making you a gift registry, Vegeta, and I'm inviting every damned one of the people I've met this last week to it, and we are going to get you some damned blinds!”

She slams her window shut, yanks her blinds down and twists them closed. And then she stomps around in a little mania. Letting out a breath, she whips around and leans back against the cool wall, smoothing her hand over her forehead. And then she laughs at the puckered ceiling.

She knows from the outside she probably looks crazy. But he makes her feel so alive.

When Bulma finally steps into the shower, she runs the washcloth over her body with new awareness. There's no coming back from this. There's no way she can forget this. Her body is already turning in his direction with a sense of purpose, like a flower toward the sunlight. This feeling now has Intention. But no flowery idioms can translate the desire coursing right through her, electric. It's been a long time since she's been dragged behind the chariot of her hormones. Her body crackles with being alive. With the heavy indolence of desire. With daydreams.

. . .  
DAY THIRTEEN  
. . .

He breaks the cycle Monday evening, when, instead of gliding up his stairs provoking her, he's jogging down them heading straight for her. On one hand, she's seen every inch of this man's skin, and with every step he takes toward her she dies even further of embarrassment and heat. On the other hand, her heart is picking up in anticipation of the volley of insults that coming home after work usually sets in motion. It's the mainstay of her afternoon; fighting with her neighbor makes her feel alive. She anticipates it, she expects it, she needs it.

Instead, he's all business. “Can you take a few days off work?”

It wasn't the question she was expecting. And it's bordering on a demand. “I have a few vacation days I could use,” she offers warily.

“Good. Take them. Two of them, starting Wednesday. Pack a bag.”

And then he's off down his street with his gym bag.

“Yes, master,” she mocks, saluting his back as he gets smaller. He's already halfway down the street. Then she sighs through her nose. She's almost disappointed he didn't bring up last night. She doesn't know why. She's a glutton for punishment.

Bulma leaves her shoes by the door and her work bag on the buffet. Barefoot, she puts an album on the turntable, dropping the needle delicately. The music's low and throaty from the corner of the room, and she floats into the kitchen and slides the cutting board out.

Even though she should be spearheading this hunt, sometimes she feels like she's just along for the ride. It's hard to figure out just what he's thinking or planning. It's scary to think she trusts his judgment. She slips her finger into the earmarked page of the book she's currently reading and hums, stirring gravy.

Time slips by, a thing it's been doing with fervor lately, when she hears a light knock behind her. She startles, turning toward the sound. Vegeta leans against the doorway of her kitchen, watching her. He's let himself in.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Why so jumpy around me, Ms. Briefs?”

Her eyes narrow, and she turns back to dinner. “I'm not jumpy.”

His eyebrows raise in mock surprise. “Don't want to talk about what you saw last night?” His voice dips lower. “What I saw?”

Her heart is stuck in her throat. “You really enjoy watching me suffer, don't you?” Like she wanted to see her annoying neighbor naked. She looks away.

“I enjoy doing a great many things to you,” he croons, leaving her insides incinerated. “But,” he says clipped. “This.” He hands her a folded piece of paper, drawing up beside her. “This has nothing at all to do with last night.”

Bulma snatches it from him and glares at him suspiciously before unfolding and reading it.

Her face crumples in confusion. “You got us a hotel?”

It's Vegeta's turn to lose composure. He shifts uncomfortably. “This is strictly business,” he promises. “Downtown there's a quarter of the city known for tourism. On the corner of 9th and Mandevilla, there's a casino called The Devil's Heaven. Have you heard of it?”

Bulma, frowning down at the pamphlet, shakes her head, looking up at him.

“It's known to be the city's most lux casino and resort, offering all kinds of sins and vices, and someone of interest to me runs it. I want at least a day to comb it over. There are things I want to observe, suspicions I have that we'll find our answer there.”

Bulma folds the paper back up neatly and plants her hands on her hips. She's pondering. “What could a casino have that makes you think that?”

“The attached luxury hotel boasts a world class orangery and greenhouse.” He watches as her eyes light with interest. “We go undercover.”

She presses the paper to her lips, thinking. “So we explore the gardens like we're tourists.”

“The only problem is that they're closed for reconstruction. We'll have to do some old fashioned spy work.”

“Hmm.” The paper droops in Bulma's hand, and her arms fold under her breasts. “Do I need a blonde wig? A code name?” She points at the paper. “Oh, looks like they have a pool. I'll be bringing my string bikini. No undercover agent goes anywhere without his beautiful, bikini-clad arm piece, and lucky for you, I fit the bill.”

Vegeta, startled, looks like he's actually unable to speak. It's wonderful. She wishes it were a button she could push. Often.

She's barely seen him for two days; she's on a roll. “So you take me on a shitty first date and then go straight for the kill with a honeymoon suite?” She slaps the pamphlet. “You've got a lot of nerve. Is this strategy why you're single? Really, Vegeta. I expected more from you before you tried to get to home base. At least a second date. Or some seduction. I'm not adverse to foreplay.”

He decides to ignore her, but it looks like it takes every ounce of his self-control. “I'll pick you up at four thirty sharp.” His voice is strangled.

Bulma's face falls. “From work? I have a speaking engagement at four. I'm afraid it might run over time.”

She's looking at him with genuine concern that this will waylay their plans, and his voice softens. “That's acceptable. We can afford to be a little late. We won't be touring the garden until the following morning.” He glances down at the stove. “Your gravy is burning.”

“Are you hungry?” She turns off the burners. Her gaze prods him. “You just came from the gym, right? You've gotta be starving. I'm making you a plate,” she orders. “And you're going to sit right down and eat it.”

Vegeta doesn't resist. He sits right down and patiently waits for her to serve it.

She slides a plate in front of him and sits across from him. This time she doesn't bore him with rocket science. This time she bores him with , and when he complains, she laughs. Her kitchen is cozy, the music a hum from her living room.

She has eaten all the roast she can, and rests her napkin on her empty plate in victory. “I may take off Friday, too. I could use a vacation.” She hadn't realized until being thrown into this how badly she needed a little fun.

“I have a fight Friday. I'll need to prep.”

“Luckily I have some vacation time to squander.” Bulma's face falls, and then rebuilds into the mask of a very angry woman. “Did you say you have a fight Friday?” Vegeta looks up, mid-bite. “And you didn't even invite me?”

“I didn't know you wanted to go.”

“It's just rude, frankly. Of course I want to see you kick someone's ass.”

He leans over his plate to take a bite, but his eyes don't leave her. They're sharp, interested. He takes a big bite and chews. “Is that right?” He finally says, amused. “You like to watch me win?”

“No. Not anymore. I have no desire to go to the fight of a man who doesn't even remember to invite me.”

He polishes off the last of his dinner roll and smiles. “You're an idiot.”

“You're an idiot.”

“Name one time.”

“That time I raked my leaves and piled them all on your porch and you yelled at me through my screen door. I don't think the Housing Organization can deal with another complaint from us about each other or we'll both be in danger of being forced out.”

“That never happened.”

“It did too happen!”

“You can't prove it in a court of law.”

“You'll get the letter from my lawyer tomorrow.” Bulma gets out of her chair with her plate, the hem of dress swaying just seconds behind her. She slides the plate into the soapy water, reaches in to the water to organize the dishes.

A dish falls into the sink with a thump as Bulma gasps. Vegeta's head snaps to her. She's holding her hand up to the light, cradling it.

Vegeta is behind her instantly. “Let me see it.” His voice is a soft order that no one in their right mind would resist.

She hands it over to him, eyes tearing. Blood is welling in the cut on her left middle finger and sluicing out.

“Is it bad?” Her voice is small.

“It's not bad,” he assures her with patience she'd never think to hear out of Vegeta, Hated Neighbor.

“It hurts. Ahh,” she sucks in air as he rinses it off to get a better look.

“Don't be a baby. Where are your first aid supplies?”

“In my bathroom.”

“Come on.”

He leads her, to her bedroom and through it. The medicine cabinet creaks when he opens it. She sits at the foot of the bed before her knees can give out and winces at her finger. All the blood makes it look bad, but there's no peeling flesh, so it can't be deep enough to need stitches, she hopes. She thinks she may faint.

“Will you make sure I don't hit my head on the dresser if I pass out?” She asks faintly.

“Yes,” he replies softly. Vegeta grabs the ointment and a bandage and kneels between her legs. She watches the top of his head as he wipes her finger down, dabs the ointment, peels the paper off the back of the bandage and carefully wraps it around her finger. He's methodical, and it eases her.

“Am I going to be okay, doctor?” Her voice trembles.

He drops her hand, squatting at her knees. “A grievous injury,” Vegeta says, the corner of his mouth turning up. “I don't know if you'll survive it.”

“I'll just have to get strong like you,” she rests her forehead in her open hand, breathing shallowly, “so that my pain threshold is so extreme that I could cut this finger clean off and just laugh.”

He sits beside her on the bed. “Getting to that point is a tough road,” he warns her. “You shouldn't have to prove if you have what it takes. I'm here for that.”

She mock-gasps. “Don't have what it—what do you mean, I don't have what it takes? I got stung by a bee watering my roses this summer. It was right after you told me I was even uglier when I'm sunburned. I didn't even cry.”

He smiles at her.

It's a real, unfiltered smile from Vegeta, without the malicious pull at the corner. It's worth a million more than anyone else's smile. She wants to take a picture and blow it up ten sizes and put it over her bed. She can't help but smile back, nose wrinkling. Her heart is so full of...something. It's bright and warm and possessive.

She reaches out and runs her palm over the angle of his cheek.

He stills. He doesn't blink. He just watches her.

She watches herself push boundaries. Watches as her hand glides over into the hair at his temple and strokes through to the back of his head. Her hand curls a little in his hair, savoring it, and then continues, skimming down the back of his broad neck that she's always been so curious to touch.

She cups his face with both hands and smiles softly at him.

His hands curl around hers, clasps her wrists. His thumb drags over the sensitive skin of her wrist.

She leans in, leaning her forehead against his, and just breathes him in.

Then, lips hovering over his, Bulma's lips brush Vegeta's. The air seems to grow thicker, and their bodies heavier, slowed, as if intent has made them laden.

This is trespassing. This is flouting the rules. She draws away, waiting for him to react, to tell her to proceed or to back away. But he's already dragging his lips over hers again.

Her entire body is straining for more contact, but her lips are taking this slow and careful. But are they? They're charting new territory, kissing this man finally that she desperately wants to taste, and maybe always has. With the confidence that she has him here and he's kissing her back, her hands curl possessively at the nape of his neck as if to keep him here.

They must be on the same wavelength, because he draws her closer to him, lining her up with a hand on the small of her back. This kiss is plain and simple but a boldfaced lie. This kiss is subterfuge and rebellion. The kiss is a pawn moved to the front to test the opposition; it's got “I'm baiting you” written all over it. It's close-mouthed and soft—“this is just a kiss”—but holding back a deluge underneath—“I want it better, more, harder, deeper.” The truth makes her edgy and needy. There's a welling of desire behind her skin. Bulma realizes the depth of what she wants, to feel this man, as if that's exactly what she's been looking for this whole time and he just gave it words.

At an angle, she opens her mouth against his, goading him. She wants more. If this is a ruse, he'll back out now. This is a too dangerous game.

He acknowledges her move and moves his own piece.

Mouth to mouth, he guides her to fall back onto her bed.

Press, retreat, tilt, breath, repeat. Over and over until it's a slow wet slide. Her hand glides down his neck to his shoulder, fingers drawing over his neck. He leans his weight on one elbow, his other hand cupping her jaw. It's more contact than she could have ever dreamed of. This hand. Her whole body swells with languid excitement, with a razor sharp awareness of every inch of skin against hers and the skin that isn't, that resists.

She tastes his lower lip because she's always wanted to, and this is them forging a new path, raw and new. That firm, no-bullshit upper lip, and its fuller counterpart. This new game. Her tongue traces its curves.

Vegeta finally seems to stiffen above her. Had she revealed too much? Was she playing dirty, or was this fair? But Vegeta's hand instead slides down her shoulder, meanders down her side. That hand is everything right now. He holds her tighter at the small of her waist and angles his mouth against hers, easing her into something deeper, wetter. His tongue slides against her own, but it isn't hard and frantic. It's a melting exploration, melding and parting in a slow rhythm. He is kissing her exactly how she's always want to be kissed.

The hem of her dress slides down around her hips as he lays beside her. There is a heaviness growing between her legs that protests this pace. She is ready to wrap her bare legs around his dense waist and see how he retaliates. She is ready to be touched in other places: here here and here, she will tell him. She could draw him a map. They are too far apart. She needs to be closer. She is melting into the mattress as his tongue strokes hers, and there is no other place she'd rather be.

She wants to see what this man is capable of when he wants to draw out her pleasure and torture her. She wants to feel this man's hand on her bare thigh, now. His hand, that warm, heavy hand, drifts down the curve of her waist to the arc of her hips over her skirt, and lingers. He is inches from where her dress falls and exposes the skin of her hip. He is a handspan away from the ache he is making in her.

She is being kissed stupid, and so, brainlessly, her own palm drifts down his back, and then over the wonderfully delicious ridges of his side that are hers to explore now. She draws a finger down those famous abs. Where his tee shirt falls loose over his lean waist, she hooks her fingers into the front of his pants, the skin of his lower belly against the back of her knuckles.

Vegeta stills. And then the moment folds in on itself.

He pulls away. He politely pries his hand from her hip before he sits up. And then he's standing. “I'll pick you up from work,” he's saying, moving away from the bed. It only takes him a second to shift gears. She hates that about him.

She brushes her skirt down back to her knees as she pushes herself up with a sliver of shame.

He is already in the doorway. The universe is still wheeling around her head.

It's clear. He's putting an end to this.

“4:30 sharp.” He stills at the threshold of her bedroom and the rest of the world. With his back to her, his voice is neutral. Gentle, even. Letting her down, redirecting her. Reminding her to be careful, to stay disciplined. Except he doesn't sound convinced.

She sits and stares out the window as he lets himself out.

Bulma is not good at being careful. Already, she's talking herself out of the crazy expectation that she should be _careful_.


	8. Chapter 8

. . .  
DAY THIRTEEN  
. . .

Vegeta is drawing a line.

A line between today and yesterday, when his mouth devoured hers and his hand strained at her hip, leaving her melting into the mattress. A line to divide this evening and their evening at the Moonlight, grabbing her out of another man's arms. A line to disjoint this minute and the one where he'd heaved her over his shoulder and dumped her on his couch, teasing her with a tiny white towel. A line to cleave in two the man he was back then, rolling a band-aid over her finger, and the man he is now, who doesn't feel a thing because he says so, who is only Her Neighbor and only has his mind on The Mission.

She's beginning to see a pattern.

Vegeta is trying to win a war he's fighting with himself. When he expresses feelings for her, he squashes them. And Vegeta loves to win. She has little doubt that, no matter how difficult the struggle, he won't fail at this.

With deep melancholy, she tells herself it might be time to resign herself to it. A part of Vegeta may want her, but another part does not. She doesn't know why; she's been left very little clues. She should just be a good friend and keep this professional, in order to help him do the same. But it's so much easier said then done. A part of her has already committed to pursuing him, simply because he's something she wants. It's terribly selfish.

Applause breaks out as she pulls away from the podium. Stepping down to let another take her place, she shakes hands with a few of her peers and makes her way down the stage stairs. Threading through the seats in the low lighting, she spots her neighbor leaning against the wall in the back, his tell-tale silhouette emerging from a deep pocket in the shadows. There's no way this is as titillating for him as watching him boxing half-naked was for her.

Bulma slams the door on that thought. She cannot think of him as the man whom she desperately wants to pin her to her bed. She cannot even think of him as Hated Neighbor. Right now, hate is as bad as desire, because it's all way too passionate. She needs to take a plunge into icy water. She wonders how cold the lake is off the docks of Tien Shinhan's place this early into winter.

To Bulma's surprise, the guy from the fifth floor shuffles over to congratulate her. He's nice, and he's clearly interested. She can almost see Yamcha out of the corner of her eye, giving her a thumbs up. Yamcha, who, like any good friend, just desperately wants her to meet a 'nice' guy. This guy has a pretty smile, straight and white, and his eyes twinkle, pale blue against his periwinkle shirt. Bulma tells him she will see him around and continues her way to Vegeta. A deep, ugly part of her checks him carefully to see any signs of jealousy. There are none. Vegeta looks as impartial, bored, and cool as ever. The cavewoman in her chuffs with displeasure.

Nevertheless, he carries her bag out to his car. His duffle, resting in the back of the seat, shifts as hers scoots across the leather, claiming the space. Vegeta is wearing black jeans and a black sweater that pours across muscle, and it throws her off because it's so unusual to see Vegeta in anything but athletic apparel. She's left wondering what the occasion is, and maligning it. How is she ever going to keep focused on the mission when he's right there in front of her, breathing?

The car is stuffy with silence as they pull away from the building. Vegeta doesn't seem in any hurry to talk about what happened yesterday, or even more curiously, to explain the who's, what's, and why's. They are about to spend two days and nights confined with the other. After last night left everything a mess between them, this should be kind of a big deal. Instead, he focuses out the windshield, his hand loose on the steering wheel, no doubt convinced that his Olympian self-control will get him through anymore problematic-Bulma situations.

She should be insulted. Insulted that he left her there without a word and is now giving her the cold shoulder. And she is, really. But, irascibly, she wants to understand why. The scientist in her _needs to know_. The detective in her must parse out the how of it. When he paused in her doorway, his goodbye was regretful. She knows that the man kissing her last night wanted her, and Vegeta's not playboy enough to leave her in a puddle on her bed with some charming parting words. So what's stopping him? What is so powerful that it could prevent Vegeta from doing what he wants?

Or who?

She wants to attack him with questions—she really, really does—but more than anything, she wants to remain friends. Friends give each other space, right? For now, he wins this one.

The silence thickens as they wind through the city, and she can't stand it. She chooses a safe question. “Already hit the gym?”

He nods once.

“You're so driven,” she tells the window. She is committed to being as non-confrontational as he is being right now. It is terribly unlike them.

“So are you,” he reminds her. It's an undisguised compliment. This is unprecedented.

“Yeah, well,” she sighs, pretending her heart isn't thumping because he's talking to her. “I'm the 'fixer' at work. I'm the one everyone brings the problems to. I'm the one who is trusted with the impossible projects, which means my work load is insane, and they keep piling more on top of it. I'm a workaholic, but even I'm burning out. Drive isn't necessarily a desirable trait to have.”

“Drive is one of the most valuable traits a person can have,” Vegeta parries. “You alone are breaking new ground. You alone are living, drawing new boundaries, while other people lead their small lives.”

“Tell that to my ex-husband,” Bulma remarks dryly. “Our marriage fell apart because of me. I'm too obsessive. You should know that by now.” She hazards a glance at him. “My stolen research project is all I can think about. I couldn't give less of a damn about work, about life.”

Vegeta's voice drips irritation. “About that guy in the sixth row in the blue shirt.”

Bulma rolls her eyes. “Don't even get me started on dating. The disingenuous small talk, the circuitous first date. Another first date, another first date. Yamcha keeps harping on me to put myself out there, but I'm fine, you know?”

Bulma's eyes flare wide at the admission. She sends him a rough glance because the mild conversational terrain has suddenly transformed into rocky cliffs and sharp edges. There is Something between them that makes this topic particularly sharp edged, but not enough to warrant pointing out, because Vegeta is quick to gather it all up when it gets messy and project it back into the right direction. What's between them occupies a no man's land, resists definition and analysis, therefore it cannot demand loyalty. It seems like Vegeta is just ignoring it, anyway. He runs hot and cold, flips from tender to aloof. She's too smart to put her quarters in to play that game, she tells herself. But she's lying. She would put her quarters in right now if it made him kiss her again. She would be dragging her hands through her couch cushions for change.

But she scolds herself. She and Vegeta are united by only one thing now: hunting her project. Any neutral topic that friends or co-workers might share is all that's appropriate anymore. If Vegeta wants to put it behind them, then she does, too. Just like that. She's a new woman because she says so.

She clears her throat. She is now in character, playing her part for him. 'Disinterested Neighbor' enters the scene. “I've been on a few dates since the divorce,” she says carefully. “None of them have led anywhere.” She stares out the window. “Frankly, I'm just too busy.”

She's full of shit. Too busy for dating, and yet she is with him every night.

He just maintains his gaze out the windshield. “Drive. Obsessive motivation. Single-minded purpose. They might be an obstacle for some people, but I couldn't be partners with someone who didn't have those qualities. It's what separates the weak from the strong. I'm only interested in those who are pushing themselves, attempting to see what more they can accomplish, testing themselves in new ways.”

Stunned, Bulma tucks a lock of hair behind her ear to cover her surprise. He's just admitted that he respects her. He must be trying to make her feel better. She snuffs out a smile at his compliment. Everything feels sadder today. She tells herself it has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the weather. These dratted gray skies. This infernal alignment of the stars and planets, with Mercury in retrograde and Venus in Scorpio.

“Even if it makes you feel lonely?” She asks after a pause. She thinks of Yamcha, how she'd unintentionally hurt him. “Your friends...your partner....” What had been Yamcha's words? “...They're choosing something over you.”

“I only allow into my life those who give 110%. Living boldly requires no apologies.” He looks at her for a long minute.

She is sure he's telling her she shouldn't regret their kiss last night. It's almost an apology. A recognition that he screwed up. But it feels like he's eulogizing them before they've even got off the ground, because it doesn't change that there's this blasted line in the sand. It's just so complicated and unfair.

Her brows pinch as she fights the wet heat in her eyes. Disinterested Neighbor continues the Very Casual conversation about relationships. “You say that,” her voice dips, “but it was really hard on Yamcha. I was gone all the time. I chose my work over him countless times. He wanted a family. I wanted to build things. I made him miserable.” She stares carefully out the window. If she doesn't, she'll burst. She'll ask him why he left, when he needs her to back off. When she just wants to climb into his lap. If she even so much as glances in his direction, she'll demand that they stop speaking in riddles, with round-about apologies and cryptic sports-analogies of their behavior. “I'm not a good friend right now, let alone a good girlfriend.” She laughs, forced and fake. “What can I say. I'm too intense. I'd just steamroll anyone who tried to stick it out with me.” Unless he were a mountain, like Vegeta.

_Here, Vegeta,_ she may as well be saying. _Here's my own apology for kissing you last night. This 'sorry' is a little worse for wear because I don't mean it._

Vegeta just says, “It's why I let so few people into my life.”

But he let her in it. Another inconspicuous compliment. He must feel really bad about leaving her last night. That, or he's trying to ply her with apologies so that she doesn't bail on this mission. Why does he care? Why does he care about any of this? And if he does, why does he make the stupid choices that he makes?

Pretending she has no feelings is tiring her out. She doesn't like being Disinterested Neighbor. This isn't going to work.“I guess I intruded on it, huh?” She thumbs the band-aid wrapped snugly around the tip of her finger. She grits her teeth on a feeling. “I'm sorry for involving you in this. I just didn't know anyone else I could trust to accomplish it.”

It's Vegeta's turn to hide a smile. It's rare praise, a gift from her to him. She doesn't even realize, just watches the terrain queue past the window.

She is unusually melancholy and bruised, and it's his fault. He doesn't deserve her, but he can't tell her that. He can't tell her anything. Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Vegeta stares resentfully at the horizon.

…

When they pull up to the hotel, a valet takes their car, a busboy whisks away their bags, and Bulma is left slack-jawed at the magic of it all. The hotel is a tall, crescent-shaped, pastel pink confection, with a palm tree border and a sprinkling of lawn chairs and cabanas right off the coast of the ocean. Vegeta strides in through the doors, suddenly all business. Bulma's barely picked her feet up off the floor, and space grows between them.

Water rockets up from stone in the front foyer in a synchronized dance, glancing off crystal chandeliers. Velvety, mint-green carpet extends past the fountains to the front desk, flanked by spiral staircases. As they approach the front desk, Bulma spies an enormous pool to the left that extends straight into the ocean. The casino floor is to the right. She can't take her eyes off that pool.

“No,” comes the bossy command at her side.

“Surely we have _some_ time to kill—“

“We're on a mission. Focus.”

She frowns severely at his sharp tone. “I am focused. Do you honestly expect the only thought in my head for the next two days to be 'Where is my project?' on repeat?”

“Yes.” His eyes slide in her direction and forward again, settling on more important things, like the air in front of him. “I'm disappointed you'd consider thinking of anything but recovering your project. Unsurprised, however.”

“Oh, don't you wag your finger at me right now.” Setting her jaw, her voice lowers to a steely whisper. “I haven't shamed you for last night, and I have every right to.”

She can see the impact of her statement wash across his face. She's hit him where it hurts. So what does he do? He retaliates. “I wouldn't have had to set you back on the right path if you would have just stuck to the program.”

The 'right' path? She hates what he's suggesting. “Your program sucks,” she hisses.

He's right back to being an absolute jerk and she can't imagine what could possibly have put him in such a bad mood from between now and getting out of the car. She's tired of him bossing her around, telling her to live boldly one minute and then yanking her leash the next. She needs a paper bag to scream into. The brief cease-fire between them is now pocked with smoking bullet holes. Her eyes narrow. It's really not about that big, glimmering pool to their left, crystalline under the sun! It's the principle of the thing, which she plans on beating him over the head with. “When am I ever going to get another chance to come back here, Vegeta?”

“When you get that boyfriend you'll enjoy walking all over.”

“I'd rather walk all over you,” she seethes.

They don't have time to react to the implications of that comment because the woman at the front desk is already beaming at them.

“Hello and welcome. Do you have a reservation?”

Vegeta briskly slides her a sheet of paper.

The woman's eyes widen. “Oh, the newlywed suite. Recently married? Congratulations, you two.”

Bulma has faster reflexes than Vegeta. A smile blooms on Bulma's face, and Vegeta stills with the awareness of danger. “Why,” Bulma begins, “yes. We are newlyweds!”

The woman behind the counter returns the smile and addresses Bulma. “You look so happy, dear.”

Bulma throws her arm around Vegeta's waist and pulls him close, resting a hand on his chest. “We really are! You should have seen the ceremony! The wedding was so beautiful,” Bulma gushes. “We got married in a meadow overlooking the mountains on the ocean shore. The sun was setting, and he couldn't stop crying. And the proposal! Oh! He really put so much effort into it. He rode a white horse and the ring was atop a bouquet of roses while, nearby, a harpist played under a rainbow.” Bulma puts a hand at her mouth to block Vegeta from hearing. “This guy would just _not_ stop crying.”

Beside her, Vegeta is frozen with mortification. With her arm around his waist, she can practically feel the fissures in his robot body before it explodes.

She has him. Her smile is deadly. “He doesn't like to talk about it because he's so humble. But he's been so excited about tonight, if you know what I mean. Can you believe he's been saving himself all these years?”

Vegeta claps a hand over her mouth, pinning the back of her head to his shoulder. “We'll take the keys now,” he orders, blasting the receptionist with a glare.

…

Vegeta hasn't stopped glaring at her up all twenty floors in the elevator.

“Don't be mad because you've been fairly bested.” Smug, she won't apologize. She tries not to look at him or his reflection in the mirrored elevator walls. “You don't think you can have fun and work at the same time? I just proved you wrong.”

“Oh, you're gonna get it,” he only promises.

“I wish,” she counters under her breath.

There's a tension between them that neither of them are having any hope of diffusing. It's a bomb ticking between them that each are ignoring. He doesn't want her? Fine. They're just partners. Just friends. She'll still win, though.

...

As soon as their bags hit the floor of the suite, he's plotting. “There's a place to sneak into the gardens just after the entrance to the spa on the fifth floor. It won't be locked. It's a hallway for the cleaning crew. It's the third door on the left, which will require some lock picking, but the hallway doesn't get much traffic. From there we'll have the run of the expanse.”

Bulma frowned. “Isn't there security?”

“I took care of it.”

“You took care of it? How?”

“Don't worry about it. Are you ready? I want to scope out the area tonight.”

Vegeta is holding open the door for her.

She stands, bewildered, in the doorway. “What, I don't even get to change out of my work clothes? I haven't even got to admire this posh penthouse yet. I just got married, the least you could do is let me have a minute.”

His voice is strained. “You look fine.”

What a complement. The corner of her mouth pulls down. She can't let him know he gets to her. But can she get to him? That was always the challenge. And its succulent reward? Driving him crazy.

“Well, how am I going to attract men in my work clothes?” She moves to the bathroom to check herself in the mirror. “I've got a few dresses in this bag that I packed just for picking up men.”

“You're not picking up any men,” he growls from the bathroom doorway. “We're working.”

“I might need the room tonight to myself, if you know what I mean,” she jabs as she fixes her hair. “Does room service change the sheets each morning?” Her voice lowers, playing over its deepest, most sensual registers. “Because I am going to pluck the first man I see out of the crowd and make him work for it on that bed. After the week I've had, I deserve it.”

Vegeta growls and storms out of the room.

“Bulma two, Vegeta zero,” she calls before he slams the door behind him.

…

Vegeta isn't talking to her, but that's okay. She's enjoying this despite him. Work has been a slog, and all of her spare energy has been devoted to chasing her research project through a labyrinth that just leads her into black holes and paranormal vortexes and dead ends and neighbors who reject her. She desperately needs something to do that makes her feel competent and human again.

Dutifully, they make their way around the fifth floor, walking right past the closed brass doors of the garden. They stroll in shared silence, absorbing every detail. They are both thorough, analytical, but can't agree on what any of the (sparse) evidence they've uncovered suggests. Eventually, Vegeta gives up on having even a basic conversation with her, and she is content to ignore him.

Things wind down, and Vegeta breaks away to use the restroom. There is a door down the hall that seeps laughter and chimes with the clink of glasses. Bulma waits outside for about half a second before drawing near it. She peeks around the corner. A host at a lectern smiles at the crowd seated around the restaurant. “Trivia Night” is displayed on a large banner above the bar.

The host's voice cuts through the music.“Schrodinger's cat is a thought experiment to illustrate what type of mechanics?”

“Oh!” Bulma calls out from the doorway. “Quantum mechanics!”

Everyone in their seats turns around to stare at the newcomer.

The host smiles. “Yes! And hello! You will need to sign yourself in, though, to play.”

Bulma takes one step in when a hand grips her arm. “No,” Vegeta grounds out.

“Ah! And she's got a partner! That's one point for...what's your team name, so I may write it down?”

Bulma turns her bared teeth smile on Vegeta and takes a step inside, pulling him deeper in. He digs in his heels and she yanks him harder, but he hates being embarrassed in public so he's forced to follow. She wins. She slides into the nearest seat. He looks as angry as ever, but it's okay, he deserves it.

“Your team name?” The host nudges.

“Oh.” Bulma sits down. “Um...”

“They're newlyweds!” Pipes a familiar voice. Bulma and Vegeta both turn to see the front desk lady waving at them. “Hi! How's your honeymoon going?”

“So good!” Bulma waves cheesily back.

“The Honeymooners!” The host boomed. “One point to the Honeymooners.”

Vegeta is glowering death and doom at Bulma, but she chooses to ignore him like usual. “Just roll with it,” she whispers, testing their pen on a cocktail napkin.

“You're gonna get it,” he promises her silkily.

Bulma writes their names on their score card. “You keep making promises you don't keep,” she responds sweetly.

“The filament in an incandescent light bulb is made of what element?”

Bulma slaps her hand on the table before he can finish asking the question. “Tungsten!”

“Another point to the Honeymooners!”

Bulma smiles as she marks another tally on their score card.

“Let's move on to the literature category. Alright, folks. This famous poet insisted that we do not go gently—“

“—into that good night,” Vegeta finishes, pouting, without addressing the host, or Bulma, or anyone but maybe just a higher power because he is so abjectly superior to them all. He rubs at the bridge of his nose like Bulma is giving him a headache. She hopes she is.

“Another point to the Honeymooners!”

Bulma grins and prods his foot under the table with the toe of her heel. “And here I thought you were all fists and no brains!”

He's practically looking at the ceiling to avoid looking at her. Arms folded over his chest, slouching in his chair, he says nothing.

“They're now neck and neck with the Double Deuces.”

Bulma grabs the arm of the waiter moseying past. “Hi. Can I get a bottle of merlot? Only one glass is necessary, just for me, thank you.”

“This is unfair. Who let the meathead and the egghead in?”

A spatter of grumbling breeds behind her. Bulma glances over her shoulder, assessing. Looking demurely from under her lashes, she turns back around. She has determined that there's no threat from the peanut gallery and moved on.

The waiter returns as the volume of complaints pick up.

“This isn't fair. They know all the answers.”

“She's not even that pretty.”

“I'll show you who's not that pretty,” Bulma is muttering into her wine.

Vegeta finally looks in Bulma's direction, where, over her shoulder, a few couples glare at the back of Bulma's head. The host, clearing his throat, tries to redirect the energy with some jokes.

Eyebrow cocking, Vegeta's eyes finally settle on Bulma, who, cheeks flushed, is doing her best to ignore them all. She is putting on a good show, and she doesn't seem like the type to let this kind of stuff bother her on any other day. But he knows her well enough by now to see that she's crumbling under the weight of today's frustrated dejection. The bitching coming from behind her is just the cherry on top of a steaming pile of crap that she's been enduring like a good sport all day. That he's definitely had a part in making worse.

Vegeta's gaze turns back to the other players. He hates them immediately. He can't swallow that they're their competition. It's he and Bulma against everyone else, and Vegeta wants suddenly to beat them all right into the dirt.

Vegeta straightens, steeples his fingers, and then smiles at Bulma crookedly. It's the first time they've made eye contact all night.

She stills. It's not a nice smile.

“Let's win this round, shall we, Ms. Briefs?”

…

Only when they're swaggering out of Trivia Night, Bulma gripping their prizes like trophies—a bottle of expensive merlot and a steak dinner, while other couples shoot them dirty looks—does Bulma finally let out a defiant laugh at this whole week. Bulma's eyes meet Vegeta's and she grins as they high tail it out of there before the mob comes at them with torches and pitch forks. He makes a scoffing noise that's mostly laughter and follows close behind. They're high on winning, and stupid. They have forgotten everything about keeping their distance that they'd learned just last night.

They pass an alcove where a woman is handing out fliers for one free martial arts seminar with a Master Yajirobe. Bulma leans into the crowd and warns, “I wouldn't, if I were you. I took a class with Yajirobe and he would not stop passing gas. He has a condition, you see. The smell mixed with the odor of gym mats.... I'll never forget it.”

Bulma has probably had too much wine because she is stirring up trouble like a school girl. Like a proper bully, Vegeta lets her.

The rumor grows, the crowd disperses.

Vegeta and Bulma snicker all the way to the elevator.

His eyes follow her, his lips crooking at their corners. He can't stop. When she leans her head back against the glass wall of the elevator, her eyes dart to his, twinkling with mischief, like they share a secret. When the corner of his mouth twitches up, her smile stretches wider, cheeks flushing. A surge of possessiveness answers in him.

When they get back to the room, Bulma plops down at the table beside the bed and pops the cork on the bottle of wine. Vegeta watches her out of the corner of his eye as he checks their phone messages. She distributes their expensive steak dinner on either side of the takeout box, humming.

When he finally slides into the seat across from her, she tempts him with a bite of steak, speared on the end of her fork. Vegeta leans in to take it between his teeth, but Bulma snatches it away at the last minute and shoves it into her own mouth, laughing. She is practically glowing, and Vegeta's chest is tight with pride because it has something to do with him. Vegeta's own smirk hasn't left his face since they'd gained a ten point lead, and he'd just sat, arms folded, eyes boring into the other player's with a cruel smirk clawing at the corner of his mouth. “Jupiter,” he'd answer a question, all the while eyes never leaving them until they started to fidget and sweat. Bulma had just smiled into her wine.

“Someone needs to knock you down a peg or two.” He buries his fork in his own steak. “I'll happily oblige.”

“Right back at ya,” she says through a mouthful of fries.

He eats from his takeout box quickly, and then settles on the bed. It's not even a proper sprawl, Bulma laments. He lies there regally. His sweater is pulled up a little around his waist, showing a few inches of skin. His arms are behind his head, making his lats and biceps flex.

“Glass of wine?” Bulma's eyes roam him. “This is definitely a special occasion,” she reminds him. If she were braver, she'd climb right up his torso, leading the way with her tongue. Just friends. Just partners. “We have won a great victory tonight.”

They'd been a real team tonight. Watching him grow fiercely competitive had been thrilling. He'd jumped in to help her answer every question before any other team could get a word in edgewise. Why couldn't they always be like this?

“I need to be alert tomorrow,” he declines.

“Okay, so I'll just be the lush of this team.” She takes a few gulps.

“You always have been.” He gracefully hops out of bed. “I'll take the couch.”

Bulma blinks, gone serious. “The bed is plenty big enough for both of us. Half a dozen sumo wrestlers could comfortably fit in this bed.” She stares. “You won't even know I'm there.”

“You can have the bed,” he says firmly.

“Quit being the perfect gentleman,” she says, finishing her glass and frowning at the last dregs. She refills it. “It doesn't suit you.”

He turns from tossing a pillow onto the couch. He is both offended to be compared to a gentleman and told that he's not one. He doesn't know what he wants. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means be logical. This bed is plenty big enough to share without being forced to spoon.” Her cheeks pinken a little. “You need to rest, too, and you're not going to feel rested sleeping on the couch. Quit being emotional, and be practical.” She slices steak. She is poking the bear. But she loves to poke the bear.

“I am not emotional,” he warns.

She just rolls her eyes in disbelief.

That seems to piss him off more. “I'm perfect,” he warns silkily.

“Be imperfect for once in your life,” she dares. She gives him a look under her lashes. “Be bad.”

“That's the problem.” He looms over her. “I am bad, but I'm trying to follow the rules,” he growls, like it's not working and it's all her fault.

“I haven't seen you be bad once,” she mutters into her wine.

“I can be very bad.” As if to punish her, he grabs the hem of his shirt with a hand and draws it over his head, baring every smooth ridge and muscle of his stupidly hunky upper body within touching distance of Bulma.

The glass of wine stutters to her mouth and she stares.

“I'm not putting a shirt back on, Ms. Briefs,” he promises stubbornly. When her face starts to flush and her eyes dart away, his smirk inches up his face. “It's nothing you haven't seen before.” He's reminding her of his shower, and she chokes. He's fighting dirty.

It doesn't matter if she's seen it before, she hates to have to tell him. It's something she could watch over and over again with only exponentially growing anticipation and lust. She bows her head and splays her hand over her face so he doesn't see it on her face—but she's a few glasses of wine deep, so it's likely already made an appearance. He's grinning at her now and she hates him for it.

And then he lies back onto the bed and throws his arm over his face, as if nothing had ever happened. As if he could just strong arm the mood into changing. As if Bulma could just recover and bounce back from something like that, like it was so insignificant.

She's tired of this game. Every time she starts to win, he changes the rules. He gets to have all the fun and power. She wants to be the boss this time. She wants to make the rules. She wants to make him pay.

And she knows just how to do it.

She's going to challenge the game design.

“Shall we play a new game?” She poses the question as she gulps back her glass. “For every article of clothing you take off, I will mirror you. You took off your shirt, so...” Her fingers hover over the top button of her blouse, and she watches him.

She doesn't know exactly what kind of reaction she wants. Defeat? Encouragement? She just wants to watch him squirm like it's her life's work. Blame it on the wine, maybe. Or blame it on his hot and cold behavior, on the reaction of her body to it, ping-ponging between revenge and desire. _Squirm like bait on a hook. Be **affected** by me._

She pushes the top button through its hole.

“Are you this flirty with all your neighbors that help you look for secret government research projects?” He looks at her with one eye, his forearm over the other.

Her smile melts across her face. “Only angry, private ones with hero complexes.” She unbuttons another button.

“You sure this isn't the wine talking?” He looks so effortlessly cool and aloof, lying on the bed with an arm thrown back like an underwear model. He doesn't look affected at all, and it's driving her crazy.

“Another button,” she warns him. Her blouse is just starting to reveal cleavage. She stands, her hands on her placket, and, slowly, struts over to the bed. “An eye for an eye. If you want to lounge around topless, it's only fair that you feel the pain, too.” Another button pops, at the center of her bust.

“The pain, Ms. Briefs?” His eyes flicker to her chest and back again.

Her fingers stutter as she realizes what she's admitted. That was a bad call on her part. The wine is making her thrill seeking and careless, but she's gotta do better if she wants to win this one. She undoes another button. The lacy top of her bra is showing now.

“Are you going to unbutton every button until I put my shirt back on?”

“I'd prefer that you don't,” she chokes with laughter at the edge of the bed.

Vegeta, tense, sits up, resting his feet on the floor. “That's not fair.” It sounds composed and dry, but she can see by the line of his shoulders that he's edgy. He's trying to be careful. To be disciplined.

Fuck his discipline. “Who told you life was fair?” She reminds him, before propping her knee right between his thighs.

That gets to him. His eyes, fixed on her knee, go wide.

Smiling confidently, her lids lower.

And then he looks up and pins her with heated eyes.

Her fingertips push the last button through its hole. Her blouse gapes open, and, without taking her eyes off of his, she slides out of her shirt and, pinched between her fingertips, lets it with a rasp to the floor.

“Well, Ms. Briefs,” Vegeta finally says, and it's deep and throaty. “You are ruthless. But if I don't remove anymore clothing, I'm not in any more danger.”

“Rookie mistake,” she murmurs. “I'm still wearing this bra. And you certainly aren't wearing one.” He is doing a great job, despite the cleavage just inches from his face, of not looking below her neckline. She has to applaud his control. But it has to go. Now. “For every answer you do not give me,” she proposes, “I will unhook one clasp of my bra. I warn you: there aren't many.”

His stare is scorching her from head to toe. She is painfully aware of his strong thighs on either side of her knee. He is so much stronger than her. He could scoop her up and pin her to the bed if he wanted to.

“You're betting on my desire to keep your bra on.” He looks up at her from under his lashes. “What if that isn't my priority?”

“Whatever choice you make,” she points out, “I win.”

“Then let's up the stakes,” he tells her, and his hand clasps her ankle as he leans in. His bare chest is so close to her lace-covered breasts that her nipples harden. “For every question I do answer, I get to take a liberty of my own.” His hand drags up her bare calf to the sensitive skin behind her knee, and lingers under the hem of her skirt.

Bulma takes a deep breath and regrets it, because her chest just expands in front of his face. His control slips: he glances down. The realization that his mouth is just inches from her breasts undoes her, and she feels an answering pulse between her legs. She has to keep it together. He hasn't even done anything yet!

All of the sudden, she doesn't know how she wants this game to go. She gets answers, or she gets undressed. What's the better option? Bulma has to be honest with herself: is she playing for her best interests, or is she just playing to beat him? The game she's started has new and unexpected consequences. She just wanted to see how far she can push him, but he's pushing back.

“Ladies first,” he rumbles, meeting her eyes again.

He is sinfully overconfident. He's close enough for her to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze like she's always wanted to.

He must see the excitement on her face. His eyes go dark.

“I'm going to win,” she hits.

“I've got no interest in being second best at anything,” he blocks.

She can't keep her voice from going husky as she starts the interrogation. “Where do you go during the day?”

His mouth pulls up. He's not even surprised she asked. She sucks in air when his other hand curls around the back of her knee, under her skirt, requiring him to lean in a little closer. It would be so easy to arch her back and feel his lips brush against the lace over her nipple. A heaviness builds between her legs, unsettled.

He smiles up at her. It's another not-so-nice smile, reserved just for her. That's when Bulma realizes that she loves competing with him. She is his antagonist, cackling dramatically as she foils his plans time and time again. If they could just play these childish games all day every day for the rest of her life, she'd be the happiest woman in the world.

His hands move from behind her knees, sliding around to the front of her thighs, pushing up her skirt. His thumbs rub back and forth against the inside of her thigh. Her breath comes a little faster, but her jaw tightens and she holds position.

He thinks he can unravel her. But this is the most important battle in the war.

“I work for myself,” he answers lazily. “Doing exactly what I want to do.”

Her lids lower. “That's not a full answer and you know it.” She moves her hair over one shoulder, preparing to reach behind her. “What does a man with the criminal world at his fingertips do all day long to earn a living, hm? I'd wager it's something interesting.”

He gives a little ground, but only a little. “After a long time under someone's thumb,” he yields, “I make my own rules now. I won't be controlled ever again.”

“So you're self-employed? An entrepreneur?”

He shrugs, elegant and easy. “Something like that.”

She hates him. “I'll need a real location, unless you want me to undo a clasp.”

“I work on the east side,” he answers smoothly, his breath feathering against her chest as he leans in a little closer. “At a gym.”

“Trainer?”

His lips skim her collar bone. “Is that your second question?”

She scowls, mouth setting mulishly. “No.”

She can't let him get to her, but already, he's under her skin. An insane part of her wants him to answer every question just to see where his counter-game might take them. She forces herself to remember that she deserves more. “Those are shit answers, Vegeta. Why do you hide everything from me?”

“Because I can't be honest with you,” he answers immediately, running his hands up her thighs over her skirt. After all, he answers, so he gets to take a liberty. His hands settle on her hips. “And if I can't be honest with you, I won't say anything at all.”

The way he says 'can't' is firm, like it's incontestable. Whatever it is he's hiding, he doesn't enjoy withholding it. Her gaze is drawn inward, thinking. “You don't want to disappoint or take advantage of me.”

“Is that your next question?”

“That was a statement,” she argues. “And you can't tell me, not because you don't want to tell me, but because there is someone or something above you that has told you not to. But why would you submit to that, when, in your own words, you're tired of being under someone's thumb?”

His hands smooth around her hips until they're curving over her behind.

She inhales sharply. “How forward. I must be on to something.”

“I'm fighting the best here. I have to give my best. Have you ever wanted to do something, Ms. Briefs, that you're not supposed to do?”

Her heart stumbles. With her knee between his legs and his hands on her, they are dangerously close. Their faces are inches from the other's. Her gaze runs down his jaw line, the curved corner of his lips that, impossibly, she wants to kiss. Impossible, because none of this should be happening. Someone has thrown the universe into a tailspin.

“There are things you can't know about me,” he clarifies, “and things I don't want you to know about me.”

“Like what you do for a living. Like where you go. Like who you're working for. Like why you're helping me find my project.”

She must be getting real close, because he pins her with a look, scorching and immovable, and puts his open mouth on her ribs, right under her breast. His mouth is hot, and gently, he drags his teeth over her.

“I've answered several of your questions,” he tells her from under his lashes, lips brushing her belly.

“Hardly,” she breezes. Or tries to. He is being careful in stringing her along. He is getting the best of her. How can she turn the tables? “Half-answers and misdirection,” she accuses. “I may as well just undress entirely.” Her voice lowers. “Slowly. While you watch.”

Lust seems to hit them both at the same time, because his eyes are boring into her with a look like all of these invisible boundaries are suddenly completely arbitrary, and he's about to yank them all down and rush her.

They are behaving badly. She'd just been mashing buttons, and now things have gotten completely out of hand.

“I have a question for you this time.” He uncurls his hands from her thighs, drawing away, taking his warmth with him. But he needs to make sure he doesn't impact her answer. “Could you forgive a man for withholding the truth?”

For the first time during this little game, she's startled. She really looks at him, through the haze of desire.

After a second of her silence, he sits back, leaning back on his elbows, and watches her evenly.

Bulma's mind stutters to a halt. He is all abs and chest and shoulders and biceps and traps— And the way his jeans ride low on his hips and— His abs are taut, she could walk her fingers down each one and—There's a gleam in his eyes that eases between her legs—

He must see it wash over her face, because his eyes go molten. His smile is devastating, a curl of smoky heat. “The truth remains: you can't have me without accepting that there are some things you can't know,” he says, silk dragging over skin. “And, Ms. Briefs, you are the last person in the world to give up on knowing something.”

He's not wrong. She is torn in so many directions. If she continues with this game, she gives up gaining any knowledge on him and her control. She has to fully trust him in order to work blindly with him, and she doesn't know that she fully trusts him. How can she?

If she pulls away, she has to finally resign herself to not having any kind of physical or emotional relationship with him. And she can't possibly be a Disinterested Neighbor. There's no way. A working relationship is too much to ask for; they would have to split up. They could never argue over the invisible wall again, because she'd be banging at his door in a heartbeat, demanding to be ravished and arguing with him the whole time he rolled her around his bed.

And what about her project? Dimly she remembers it's what they're all about. Life has become so much more than just collecting her project before its due date. A whole new world has dropped into her lap, and she has to explore it to get any clues at all. He is her reluctant tour guide, but he's also an invaluable asset. She will find her project with him, she knows it. Without him? The odds are much more uncertain.

But where is her heart leading her? Because being with him is being lost and found all at once. This is the most important play in the game yet. Does she sacrifice her control to continue it? Or does she keep control, leave her guide, and stumble blindly through the dark? What is she playing this game for exactly? Because playing for herself and playing to beat him yield two different results.

He watches her indecision wrack her, folding his arms behind his head on the pillows. “Bulma,” he says, voice gentle. He must see his feelings on the matter reflected on her face, because he says, “Not satisfied?”

Unable to speak yet, she shakes her head.

His voice lowers. “Neither am I.”

But Bulma's mind is rapidly being made up. It's settling on a huge gamble. She is light-headed just considering it. Bulma is getting ready to risk it all, with no conclusive evidence that it will pay off.

Bulma falls onto her hands and knees and crawls over his body, until she is eye to eye with him. “I'll accept your terms.”

His eyes skip over her lips and the view between them before landing on her own.

“What are your conditions?” Suspicion wars with concern. He suspects there's a catch. And he's not wrong.

“I want you,” she demands.

And she is betting that he wants her back.

What she's asking for is wild. It's impossible. It shouldn't happen. It would be the demonic baby of two beings from very different realms. Supernatural hunters would rise up to kill it.

He is the face of surprise. “You want me?”

It's the final admission, that the game that they've been playing is to win, not the war, but each other.

“If I let you have your secret, then I want you to be the man I walk all over.”

Lips crooking at the corner, he says, “You can try.”

They play the staring game.

“Can I?” She finally asks.

“Don't ask for it unless you want it,” he growls. “Give me 110%, or nothing at all.”

“I couldn't give you any less if I tried. You're going to get way more than you bargained for.”

“That's why I like you.” The smirk inches up his face. It promises mayhem. She can't wait for the explosions, the carnage. Then he looks at her with seriousness. “I don't think you'll be satisfied, though, not knowing everything.”

“You're a hard worker, Vegeta,” she says from under heavy lids, smiling. “You keep me guessing. That's why I like you.”

“Are those your terms, then?”

“Just don't disappoint me,” she warns, thumb brushing his cheek.

His lips brush hers, and then open.

“Vegeta,” she groans into his mouth, and it's an aching confession.

“Deal,” he says, before hauling her closer by the back of the neck and closing the deal with a lush kiss, turning her inside out with desire.

It's a slow, savoring victory.


	9. Chapter 9

Bulma doesn't know which way is up or down, and that's just the way she likes it.

Maybe he was calling her bluff with that “ _Deal_ ,” maybe she is moving way too fast—she is, she _knows_ she is—but she is just so giddy to have the opportunity to prove Vegeta wrong.

Bulma's whole being is being driven at break neck speed into the unknown, slurring the known universe around them. Every movement of hers is designed to get a rise out of him. Skimming her hand over those thick, delicious pecs underneath the knit of his sweater. Sliding her lips over his own before dipping her tongue in between them. She is architecting his demise in slow strokes. She is designed to undo him from the inside. She's been made for this; this is her weird destiny. She has trapped him between the bed and her body and the thought flits through her head that Vegeta, this uncompromising fighter, is letting her pin him.

Reversing last night's roles in her bedroom, she blazes with revenge. With every second spent straddling him, she is punishing him for leaving her.

And it's working. His head and body clearly aren't communicating right now. He isn't kissing back with confidence but being ravished. He wasn't expecting this assault against his defenses. He was never expecting Bulma at all, was he?

And she's a conqueror, reveling in her win. Because it's the little things. It's the way his breath goes a little ragged on the intake when her lace-cupped breasts brush his chest. It's the way his fingers strain at the back of her neck, like he wants more, but like he's trying to make do with less. She's turned his world inside out, but still he holds on to some measure of control. Her hand smooths down his delectable stomach. He doesn't stop her; he is not resisting the challenge she's issuing. And she is high on having him. She wants to eat him up. The taste of his skin is in her mouth; she could do this for the rest of her life.

She doesn't just want to make a deal—she wants him to lose his footing and fall. Pushing his sweater up, she works her way down his body, knees dragging against the comforter. His hand goes loose then fists in her hair, and she knows she's on to something.

Now nothing makes sense except the urgency to win this one, because this is the greatest prize of all. She lays the flat of her tongue at the center of his chest and trails it down, down, down, headed to the curve of the waistband of his jeans. Vegeta's stomach clenches under her mouth and she drags her smile down it, pressing her lips here, there, everywhere she's always wanted to lay claim. And then looks up to gauge his reaction. She's gotta know.

Her breath catches. Her neighbor's shrewd, dark eyes burn, but his face has gone slack with surprise. At himself, at her—doesn't matter, he's been turned upside down. One arm has been tucked under his head, but the other hand, the one that dragged her over in the first place, hovers, forgotten, like he doesn't know what to do with it. Which is bullshit, because a man like Vegeta, so physically aware of what he needs and what needs to be done, knows exactly what to do with that hand.

Imbuing Bulma with a mad, bad idea.

Her palm slides down the bumpy ridges of his abs to the waistband of his jeans. Fingers poise over his button as her open mouth settles at his ribs, and sucks, just as she knocks back his jeans button.

Vegeta, for once, doesn't immediately react. He is used to exploding into action, counter-acting, diving in and lobbing quick, brutal shots. But now he's frozen; he recognizes what's coming next. His hand hovers over her hair, lips parted, watching her with wide eyes. This may be the first time in his life he has no cutting comeback. This may be the first time he doesn't know what to do.

And it's currently what she lives for. She swirls her tongue around his naval as her fingers drag his zipper down.

All her hair stands on end as she does it, because she's been dreaming of this moment for so long. This tangible proof of her powers, this comeuppance! She is seizing fate by the back of the neck and laughing. It's not the bottle of wine—really!—which has since boiled down; it's all this time together, pent up! It's every time he opens his mouth to contradict her, like he's volleyed the ball into her court just to see what she returns. It's every time he gives her a look from across a room or the hedge, like he's about to teach her a lesson for talking back—like he's the only man that gets to do it, the only man that'll do it right.

He hasn't so much as moved since she started unclothing him, and she doesn't know if that's his approval or if, at any moment, he'll spring into action and disarm her, chiding her with his herculean, virginal self-discipline. Vegeta doesn't let anything happen to him that he doesn't want to. So how far will he let her go? How much of an impact can this nosy scientist have on him? She wants to leave a smoking crater. She's determined to try every weapon in her arsenal and find out.

She tucks her fingers under his waistband, and drags it down just enough to reveal the vee of his lower stomach. Putting her mouth on it is a must. Does this affect you, Vegeta? She asks with her hot mouth on his hard stomach. His head tilts back a little as his teeth grit. She can't help her smile, lips curling against his skin. Does this affect you, Vegeta? She wonders, straddling him as she sits up, arching back to pluck the hooks of her bra undone, and he pushes himself up a little to meet her lips.

“Does this affect you, Vegeta?” Against his lips, and he growls back, running that empty, poorly restrained, undecided hand from her neck down her bare back, to grab a handful of her backside, finally unspooling.

When, from across the room, her bag starts to emit a shrill, persistent beeping.

They freeze.

Nose to nose, blue eyes magnetize to black. Her skirt is bunched up around her hips, her bra hooks pinched between her fingers. The jeans of his thighs chafe persistently against her bare thighs.

And then she's bolting upright, distancing herself from the hot, hard mystery under his unbuttoned pants, because Bulma is jumping up from the bed and falling on her bag, wrenching it open.

She plucks the offending object out and snicks it open with her thumb. A pocket-mirror opens too-patiently on its hinges, and the domed radar blinks up at her, a red dot on a green field, cupped preciously in her hands. Bulma's eyes go wide with wonder.

A shadow falls over the screen.

Slowly coming back to reality, she cranes her neck up, coming eye to eye again with Vegeta's freed jeans button. Then he's squatting down beside her.

“What is this?” His voice is whiskey-rough. Their eyes meet again. He looks deliciously rumpled.

She made him look like this. Bulma is feeling pride from many different angles. “I kind of made a thing,” she modestly replies, though the slanted smile creeping over her face undermines it.

By the looks of it, a person would assume it's just an over-sized compass or pocket watch. She rolls it in her hand, showing him. “Looks ordinary,” she explains, “but it's the only system capable of tracking a very specific organic energy on a three-dimensional field in real time. I soldered it together last night.” She dashes a glance at him. His brows are knit in a strong line: he doesn't get it. “It tracks my project,” she finishes.

“What?” It's a forceful breath of air. He stands, suddenly uneasy, and she stands, too. “What's going on?” He's brisk, cautiously watching the radar.

And that's when the next round of bricks hit her. She goes slack-jawed. “It means it's here.”

Bulma and Vegeta are shoving their shoes on and grabbing their shirts from the floor in a flurry. She manages to button most of her blouse buttons up over her cleavage before remembering her bra is half on, and by that time Vegeta is booking it out the door. Snarling, she hollers at him to wait, stumbling out the door as she shoves her foot into one taupe pump. His hand settles at the small of her back and, impatiently, he guides her to the elevator like some kind of chaperon straight to Hell.

“Where is it?” He issues out firm statements. He's back in the captain's seat.

Bulma's fingers are working the dials, zooming in and out at all angles as the elevator doors slide closed and it lurches slowly down. “First floor,” she announces, and they fidget, ignoring the curious and judgmental looks of the tourists they're trapped with. To outside eyes, they're a sideshow attraction. Meanwhile, Bulma is counting down the seconds to save the world.

When, with unhurried, long-lived patience, the elevator doors finally slide open at the lobby, they spill out into the front foyer. Vegeta takes the lead as Bulma shouts, “Outside!” He is sprinting down the mint carpet and out the great brass doors as the fountains outside jet into the sky and tumble back down, making crystal light glance over their faces, a cascade of colors.

“In that car!” Bulma points to the blacked out windows of a sports car as it pulls away from the curb, and Vegeta only gets a second to peek into the tinted windows as he uselessly rips the door hinge off the door. And then the sports car is streaking past them around the corner, out of their sight.

Wildly, Bulma glances around them for a idling car to steal. There isn't one.

Gone.

From the street corner, he turns back to her, and they share a look.

They've lost it.

How low they've come. It's dismally sour. It tastes like disbelief and self-actuated disappointment. Bulma's lips pulls down, the radar hanging limply at her side.

Her eyes skirt to her neighbor. On Vegeta, it hasn't manifested quite the same. He's a fighter that's been knocked down unfairly and is simmering for another chance. She can tell he's upset they missed it. It was here; they should have had it. Something dark is gnawing at him, something like resentment. His chest rises and falls and she knows it's not that running out into the street winded him—he is just so tired of coming up short. She hates that he feels that way. She, too, feels like she's on a weeks long losing streak.

Bulma gazes down at her scouter. The red dot is off the map. It's no longer beeping.

Was this...was this her fault? Was there a fault in her design? She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. Had she been more clever, would they have been alerted sooner? She'd never been bad at something, not until now, not since the theft. And ever since, she'd been running up against her own limitations on every conceivable level. Was she not capable enough, smart enough, to find her project? The possibility guts her.

She looks up to find him pacing on the street corner, running his hand down his face in exasperation. Guilt lances straight through her. He was going out of his way to help her, and she'd...failed him.

What could she do, she'd thought as she screwed in the scouter face plate in her lab in the wee hours of last night, that would make sure she finds out _something_? Who took it, where they took it, _why_ they took it? If they could just walk right up to it, because a map had just _led_ them there, that would certainly answer some questions. She couldn't just wholly rely on an outside agent—a mercenary—to solve her problems. She _wouldn't_. She was an asset to their team. She could only positively augment their detective work. She could help!

The aforementioned mercenary was shrouded in secrets like it was his damned job to be.

If he only knew how much he didn't know.

That maybe, in order to truly combine forces, he _should_ know. Because he didn't know she was just as guilty of leading a double life.

Was it time to trust Vegeta with her secrets? She couldn't pretend to understand the mess that was their maladapted relationship, but she couldn't imagine Vegeta intentionally hurting her. It was weird, but she...trusted him. They might be wary allies, but they respected each other.

So...should she tell him?

Should she tell him that it was never really a plant?

That it's something far worse?

A shadow darkens her view again and Vegeta is at her side, watching her closely as if he detects her inner struggle.

She looks up at him. Heat is watering her eyes, and she takes a deep breath. “Vegeta,” she starts.

Vegeta's brows pinch as he watches her. He is formulating some kind of opinion behind those guarded eyes, and Bulma is afraid of what it is. She's sure he sees now that she's not some kind of kickass, brilliant technological savant. She's not an equal part of this detective duo. She is the weakest link, and he's wondering how to back out of this, back away from her.

“I'm sorry,” she bites off, bowing her head and fiddling the radar off to keep him from seeing how vulnerable she feels. His eyes pool with concern, but she doesn't see it as she stares down at the radar gripped in her hands. “I'm sorry, Vegeta. But you should know—“

“Oh, look! Hey! Hello! Hey!” A woman's voice rips through the moment from the other side of the fountain.

The front desk lady leads a group of their trivia night competitors toward a party bus that has just pulled up to the curb. She shuffles forward, waving wildly. “Oh, would you look at that!” Front desk lady's eyes narrow knowingly, and, grinning, she wags her finger. “You two have been getting busy!”

Heat suffuses Bulma's cheeks as she drops her head to get a good look at herself. Here she is, standing at the front of a luxury, beach-front hotel in a ritzy crowd with her half-buttoned work blouse buttoned wrong. She is all cleavage and gaping buttons, her hair a spill around her head. Bulma gets a look at Vegeta. His shirt is still cramped up around his waist and his jeans are unbuttoned. On a scale of sweatpants to underwear model, he's a mixed bag. Vegeta's lower half looks like he should be sprawled under flash bulbs on a beach for a fragrance ad, but his face doesn't have one iota of patience for it. Frankly, he is scary. A roughed up, prideful fighter staring down the opponent who'd embarrassed him in the ring. It's not pretty. It's not happy. It is very, unapologetically... Vegeta.

Bulma closes the distance between them and politely rights his clothing, tugging his shirt back over his hips. Wholesomely, she pats his back— _there you go, all better_ —and turns back to their trivia night enemies, putting herself between them. It's a weirdly protective gesture. She doesn't care to examine it.

“Congrats, you two!” And the front desk lady winks right at Vegeta.

Vegeta, offended, blows air between his teeth and stalks back inside.

...

It's late. Real late.

Bulma doesn't bother engaging him when she steps inside their room. She heads straight for the bathroom and lets the shower sear her anew. It's been a long day, but an even longer evening. It feels like it's been a whole year since yesterday, when he handed her the hotel check-in papers in her kitchen, teasing her about watching him shower, and since they'd kissed, melting into her bed, before he'd turned her down.

It's well past midnight, and Bulma can't think clearly if she tried. Her brain has flat lined; the round-and-round chattering in her head is white noise. She is a walking shell. She needs to fall into bed. She can wonder about what's going on with her project tomorrow. Why do today what you can save for tomorrow? It's future Bulma's responsibility.

When she steps out of the steamy bathroom, he slouches against the wall at the head of the bed, flipping through channels absently. He's changed into some sweatpants and nothing more. He looks worn out, his mouth set in a grim line. Frolicking with Bulma is hard work.

Her robe slides off her shoulder as she seats herself next to him. She crosses her bare legs, wrings her hair with the towel and glances up at him. The tv chatter is dim and far away, small next to the oversized, pensive quiet. The curtains haven't yet been drawn. There's no telling where the night sky meets the ocean in the dark, only that it's there, omniscient.

“I'm sorry.” Her head lulls against the wall as she looks over her shoulder at him. She sighs noisily.

He turns his head to her, an eyebrow cocking. “Why?”

Another sigh escapes her, deep and defeated, and she looks straight ahead wearily. The digital face of the clock blinks well past midnight. “The plant isn't really a plant.”

There it was. She'd just kind of burped it up, and now it was out there, between them forever.

He blinks. Then his face twists in confusion, like she'd just said something in a foreign language. “What?”

“My project. It's not a plant.”

“What do you mean, it's not a plant?” His rough growl betrays confusion, and he finally turns toward her. All that 100% Vegeta, focused on her.

“It's not even something I made myself. It's not my invention. I'm a goddamned engineer, and the moment they give me something to take care of that isn't mine, I lose it.” Her voice strains. “That's the rub of it all. Vegeta, it's not a goddamned plant, ok?”

He is sitting up straight now, hands on his thighs helplessly curling and uncurling. “What is it then?”

She gives one more big gusty sigh and throws her head back against the wall. Her cool, damp hair curls over her clavicle. “When our team of anthropologists found it in the wilderness,” she begins, “a plant had grown around it, the snarl of its roots providing a protective cage. Rather than risk separating the two, we brought it back here to the Defense Department, where they thought to analyze whether the organic material had any affect on the object itself. It doesn't, but it made convincing concealment. As in, I had a real nice houseplant for awhile.” She looks at him then, because she owes it to him. Because she's about to dump it all on him. “When they stole it, they took the whole damned pot, Vegeta. They knew exactly what it was.” She pauses. “There's a leak at the Defense Department.”

His emotions are very near the surface. Anger, confusion, comprehension, ripple across Vegeta's face.

“This is classified,” he finally says, turning the full weight of his gaze on her. “This is all very classified.” His voice is tight.

She nods. He runs his hand through his long dark hair and exhales. “What is it?” He asks with a calm that his rigid posture betrays as fake.

“It's a ball.” Her hands cup in her lap. “About yay big. Golden orange. Stars emblazoned on the side. Glows and hums occasionally.”

She doesn't think Vegeta is any more relieved to hear that he is now off the list to find a houseplant and now on a quest to find a ball, because she can see his jaw clench as he grinds his teeth.

“This isn't a toy,” she interrupts. “And this isn't just some artifact ripe with mystical significance.” Her chest is about to burst with pent up emotion. “This is magic. This is a ball not made of any earthly matter and which is imbued with uncatalogued, unmatched energy. The Defense Department thinks it can _manipulate time and space_.” She inhales, sets her mouth in an uneasy line. “I have a penchant for solving all kinds of atypical conundrums. So they assigned me to it.”

Vegeta bolts out of bed and starts to pace. “Why in the hell would they let you take it _home_?”

She watches him walk left and right and back again and hazards a guess. “They underestimated the people who would want it for themselves?”

That doesn't seem to relieve him. Vegeta just five minutes ago was beaten, the wall propping him up in bed. Now he's a whirlwind, worrying the carpet into threads.

“I'm sorry I kept this from you,” she gushes, but then she reels it all back in. She can't afford to have emotion right now. She doesn't deserve to feel anything, keeping something like this from him while he'd gone out of his way to help her on this wild goose chase. She doesn't expect anything to go back to the way it used to be. She lied to him, or at least, by omission. And will he even believe her?

Will he stay?

She moves to stand, tossing her towel in the hamper, and that laser focus lands on her.

“Our strategy changes,” he says.

Bulma doesn't even register it, just continues morosely, like a deadman walking, back to the bed. She spills onto the mattress, arms spread out, and stares at the ceiling. “We're fucked,” she just says, the curse dropping like a stone into the eerily still waters between them. “Totally, utterly screwed.” The ceiling stares back blankly, yielding no answers. “I'm going to give up.”

“The game changes,” Vegeta persists, “so we adapt.” She feels his weight dampen the mattress springs as he sits on the edge.

“Vegeta, this seems so impossible,” she groans, pressing her palms into her eyes. “I'm no good at this. I'm no good at anything!”

And then the truly impossible happens.

Vegeta gathers her in his arms.

Bulma's hand splays against Vegeta's chest in shock.

He just holds her.

It's not a hug, because it's horizontal, right? This isn't something they've ever done before. A hug is much too sentimental, and much too telling. It would change everything. Her baiting him with unclasped buttons is still enough of a game that they don't have to look at it straight on. But a hug performed upright would demarcate clearly that things had changed, and thus, the rules had, too. They had only one tenant: anything is fair game. But if something wasn't a game anymore, it became serious. Somehow, it would insert vulnerability into this pretend war. It would make holes in their defenses. It would disrupt and transmute the rules they played by so that they weren't always in their favor. One or both of them could lose.

How could two people who loved taking on challenges be so scared to meet one?

He tucks her head under his chin and that's it. After a few blinks and he still hasn't come to his senses, she unstiffens and lays her head in the crook of his shoulder. The meat of his arm is under her cheek, her chest warm against her forehead. This is New Territory. This is Something More.

She wonders if it's okay to touch him. Would that be too much? Would that ruin this tenuous peace, this magical, insular moment? She frowns, and in rebellion, flattens her hand and skims it across his side. This is different from an hour ago, about to gobble him up. This is somehow more packed and loaded. There's so much more on the line.

Vegeta doesn't leap to his feet shouting, _“Got ya!”_ Nothing blows up. The world is exactly the same as it was a minute ago, except this time she's touching him. His skin is warm and velvety smooth, taut across dense muscle. She buries her nose deeper into the crook of his arm, mashes her face into his chest. She is burrowing, like a weird little animal into its den. Softly, tentatively, her hand journeys around to his back, smooths over the curve of his shoulder blade.

She could do this forever. She inhales the scent of him, bare-chested and quiet, and wonders if she can distill it. Bulma weasles her other arm under his heavy body and somehow pulls him even closer. Squeezes. They are in uncharted territory. There are no rules to this game; anything could cause the whole house of cards to come crashing down.

But she is Dr. Briefs. She has to test the boundaries. “I like your sweater.” She thanks whatever mysterious reason he put on real clothes today. She thinks about stealing his sweater and taking it home, keeping it under her pillow. If he suspected anything, she'd just get the pleasure of having him snooping around her home. It's a win-win.

“Your speech,” he rumbles above her, chest vibrating beneath her. “Didn't want to be under-dressed.”

Some kind of feeling takes hold in her chest and won't let go.

They lay there until their breath matches, and then they keep lying there. For the first time in a long time, she is in a man's arms while he comforts her. Does Vegeta mean to...to...make her feel safe and supported? “Bulma does not compute,” she murmurs, closing her eyes.

She doesn't know she's falling asleep on him until he's pulling away. Blearily she watches as he makes a bed on the couch, just like he said he would.

“You lose,” she jabs sleepily.

“I win.”

“Only an idiot would give up the chance to sleep with me,” she teases, shoving her legs under the covers and torquing off her robe from underneath her. It's a lot harder than it should be, until she realizes it's because she's lying on it.

“Only an idiot would want to.”

Her eyes narrow at him as she draws the comforter up to her nose.

“I win,” he says softly.

He doesn't sound satisfied.

“In your dreams,” she answers, turning out the light.


	10. Chapter 10

. . .  
DAY TWELVE  
. . .

“You're walking too fast, and you're not even paying attention to me! When you said we were going undercover, I thought you actually meant to do quality work!”

On their way down the hall to the greenhouse, Bulma has to remind him to act like he likes her. Now he's bristling at her side. Cowed, like a proper husband.

Bulma has never broken in anywhere, but she's having a great time. Slipping into the hallway goes without incident, and so does Vegeta's lock picking stunt, which she should not be surprised he's good at but is.

They crouch over another doorknob in the dark corridor. “Will you teach me how to do that?”

His eyebrow raises, but he doesn't say no, which is all the blessing she needs. The door swivels open. “I figured you'd hope to never be brought this low again.” He smirks, and her heart misses a beat. “I'm a bad influence.”

“No way.” She shakes her head, swerving in front of him as they spill into the conservatory. “Take me to do this again,” she pleads, clapping her hands together. A grin pulls at her cheeks. She is made for mischief. She reevaluates her career choice. Scientist? Or petty thief? One is looking a lot more prospective than the other right now.

“Your ex-husband never stood a chance,” Vegeta gripes, unlatching the inside door as she hovers close behind him.

“Neither do you,” she reminds him over his shoulder.

The door takes them into an anterior box, and then they're in.

Bulma had done her research, too. No way was she just going to be led around behind Vegeta on this wild goose chase, like a puppy dragged along on a leash. Intel was key. The Devil's Heaven wasn't just famous for its ocean-front casino and resort, but for its strictly planned imperial-era garden, its orchard and orangery, and it's seasonal biomes: winter narcissus and immortelle flower blooming in a snowy, man-made landscape on the north side, saguaro and the thrust of dried grasses clacking on the south. Bulma badly needs to visit this place with her mother. Well, when she gets fired, she thinks sullenly, she'd have plenty of time to waste.

This morning over breakfast, Vegeta had said that their foray into the gardens was still on, even if the object—this holy grail, this sword in the stone, which would grant life and infamy eternal—wasn't the same anymore. It didn't matter if the thieves had ripped the plant from the ball and tossed it in the gutter as soon as they'd sped from Bulma's house. She and Vegeta are committed to being thorough. They're desperate for any answers they can get, even if the answer is “it's not here.” After the ball had just driven away last night, neither of them are willing to admit just how desperate they've become. Anxiety is their new gospel, driving them. _Just keep pressing forward_ is their shared scripture. Bulma suspects they haven't given up hope because they're just too damned stubborn.

It's warmer in here than in the halls of the resort. She'd piled her hair into a bun on top her head, but still sweat beads at the nape of her neck, in the dip of her back. They amble through the trees, gazing up at the leaves. In front of them a trail winds through a hundred different species of plants, and beyond that, a pair of heavy brass and leaded glass doors open into a greenhouse with exotic plants as far as the eye can see.

The humidity pearls on Bulma's skin as she stares, mouth parted. She floats from one to the other, running her hands along leaves and bowing in front of flowers. Squatting and peering behind the big lenses of her glasses, she completes hasty sketches in her notebook when she thinks Vegeta's not looking which Vegeta pretends not to see. She is geeking out on him, the scientist part of her muscling to the front. Over her shoulder, she grins at Vegeta. It's contagious, and helplessly, Vegeta's mouth crooks upward.

“Don't forget we're on a schedule, Ms. Briefs,” he reminds her, though his voice is relaxed.

She looks over her shoulder and smiles, and Vegeta feels his chest tighten. “It's Doctor,” she reminds him prissily, though they both know she's not fooling anyone. She likes his nickname. “Or Bulma. I mean, really, you could at least drop the prefix. It's not like I afford you the same courtesy. Vegeta.” And then she's drifting to the next doors.

Surveying the crush of verdant plants and miniature ecosystems, she looks a little overwhelmed—there are so many pockets to scour for clues—and her mouth settles into an uneasy slant as she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

It's time to talk this out. “Someone had my project last night.” She straightens. She gives him a stern look, suddenly all business. “So someone had it here last night, and they didn't stay. A hotel guest? A passing car?”

“Not just any car.” Vegeta's tee shirt stretches over his chest, his broad, round shoulders straining the cuffs. She pretends not to notice. “A very expensive sports car.”

“Maybe there's footage?”

“Likely. I'll see what I can do.”

He still wouldn't reveal his methods. She had to bite her tongue. “Why would someone be traveling with it?” She ducks under the blooms of a hanging fuschia, which sheds a few stray petals in her hair.

“Showing it off. Selling it.”

Bulma chews her lip. This is just an overwhelming, monumental task. If she is realistic about this, tomorrow wouldn't include chasing her project's shadow all over town. No way. Plan B seems most sensible. The forbidden. That-which-could-not-be-spoken: giving up. She would lose her position at work and be blacklisted from any future research position, but she'd survive. At the worst, she'd have to go back to living with her parents. Maybe get a job pushing paper. Doom and gloom darken her mood. She chews her nail. If Vegeta still thinks they had a chance, though, then she had to have faith. Just when let the quicksand get her, he'd be there, dragging her back up by her collar.

“I think we're asking the wrong question,” he says as they close in on the next biome, shaded deep, wet green and guarded by an arbor draped with drooping vines. The perfume of tuberose, lichen, and water envelops them as they pass under. “How do you get it to work?”

She frowns. “I don't know,” she admits, irritated. “I haven't figured it out yet.”

“You mean you don't know everything?” The path pinches narrow, and he leads the way through the vines and out, where the sound of flowing water pounds a little louder.

She slants him a look. “All of this magic stuff was just dropped into my normal human lap,” she defends. “I'm a scientist. Reason is my raison d'etre.”

“Don't think of it as magic,” he suggests. He is unusually relaxed, contemplative. If she were a gambling woman, she'd wager that he was starting to feel comfortable around her. Oh, if only Vegeta-From-A-Month-Ago could seem them now. He'd be foaming at the mouth.“Think of it as energy.”

She frowns deeper, drawing close. They needed to ask questions in the simplest of terms and build outward. If they were viewing the ball as imbued with magic and not energy, what was so enticing about it that would cause someone to covet it? “Energy is the product of a reaction. It would suggest something happened, and now the result can be harnessed in order to be put to work. Energy is provisional. But once it's gone, it's gone, unless we can reproduce what created it in the first place. It'd be like a genie: You'd only get three wishes, then poof: your luck ends.”

“You're suggesting someone wants it because, once it's been used, it's useless.”

“Just something to consider.”

“There's a school of thought that believes that people have ki, or life energy. It's a latent force that an individual can draw out and manipulate, like a tool. The stronger you are, the more disciplined, then the more ki you can produce and control.”

“Like martial arts,” she pitches, catching on.

Patiently matching her pace, he nods.

“But why would a non-living object have ki energy?” She frowns.

“Maybe someone gave it some of their own.”

Bulma turns to crack a joke about the high cost of loneliness, but Vegeta looks completely serious. Shaken, even. Vegeta stares out over the area in front of them, unseeing. The ground is flush with a carpet of hosta under the shaded umbrella of thick, waxy banana trees leaves. She keeps moving. In her opinion, where the energy comes from is the least of their concerns. Vegeta is fixating on one piece of a whole root system of deeply unsettling facts.

The waterfall comes out of nowhere. She jerks back before her foot plunges into rushing water, and watches it tumble off the squat limestone cliff and into a pond. Down at the bottom, she can see fat koi circling under a rounded bridge, where the water stills, their ruddy orange and white backs surfacing, waiting to be fed. The bridge leads to the greenhouse, where she can see orchids yearning under the warm touch of the sun. That's where her tropical plant would be hiding, if it were here. They both know it's not, but can't give up the charade. They're not ready to admit how little control they have.

She feels him rather than sees him. He slides into the space beside her, quiet. They stand, looking out over the still, green space, air vibrating brassy gold with sunshine. The waterfall coats them in a sheen of moisture.

With a gusty sigh, Bulma drops to a crouch on the edge of the rock face, and then sits heavily, heave-ho, dangling her legs.

“What did you want to be when you grew up?” A sheen of mist from the waterfall coats the bare skin of her legs, makes the cotton of her clothes heavy. She doesn't wait for him to answer. “I always knew I'd have to take things apart and put them back together again for the rest of my life, until I understood how everything in the universe worked.”

“What did I want to be? Like a fire fighter? A doctor?” Vegeta's voice drips impudence as he gracefully seats himself beside her. “None of it.”

She frowns. “You're oversimplifying the concept.” She looks out over the gardens. “I mean, we all have to ask ourselves at some point, what is it I want to be doing? What am I passionate about? What do I want to spend my finite time on?” She stares out over the sprawling gardens, contemplating. “I guess I've just been giving it a lot of thought lately.” A crease cinches between her brows. “I thought I was right where I wanted to be. But now I'm here, and I'm questioning everything. This isn't where I imagined I'd wind up.” They share a pause of ruminating silence, until she leans back on her hands and scoffs. “Can you believe that I was so proud when they offered me this project? I thought, 'They must really trust me with this.'”

Vegeta doesn't speak for awhile. “There wasn't a profession,” he finally offers. He squints up at the domed glass ceiling. “There was no job I wanted to be working. That was too common. I wanted to be something special. I was attracted to symbols of strength. And I knew how I wanted to feel, and what I didn't want to be.”

“What?”

“Powerless.” He sits back on the palm of his hands, glowering at the scenery.

She can't imagine that he had a normal childhood. She can't even see him as a kid, with parents, and homework, and a bedtime.

“How about now?” She watches him, angling her head to look at him beside her. “Do you still want the same things?”

“Now?” He glances at her. “I'm different, but I'm the same.”

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

“Have you ever had nothing at all?”

She can't help it. Her cheeks color. She had a good childhood. A smooth ascent into a good career. Bulma shakes her head.

His voice gets rough, but he's not looking at her. “Have you ever had it all, then lost it? Have you ever wanted something so bad, and watched someone else walk off with it?” His eyes rivet to hers. She knows Vegeta's intent isn't to be patronizing. In fact, he's looking at her so earnestly, gaze clearest it's ever been. He wants her to know about him. He's offering pieces of himself up for the taking.

He doesn't let her look away. “I think a man's greatest humiliation gives a greater insight into who he is than anything. It's not just about striving to be better than my lowest moment. It's not about measuring myself by those same standards I had when I failed, but about freeing myself from them. That's why I'm always challenging myself. I want to be smarter and stronger than the man that got knocked down. I want to be ready next time.” He looks away, and Bulma feels like she can breathe again, freed from that captive gaze. “It's not about what I wanted to be when I grew up.” His gaze sweeps over the gardens. “It's about how I rose from the ashes after that didn't pan out.” He pushes himself off the cliff's edge and agilely climbs down the rock face of the waterfall.

Slowly, she moves to follow down the short, rocky face. As land nears, her foot prods and paddles air, testing to find ground. She looks over her shoulder to gauge whether the distance is short enough to jump. Instead, Vegeta's right there, holding out his hand. Blushing, she allows him to steady her before he lets go, already turning away toward the greenhouse.

It's basic courtesy, she argues with herself, but his touch jolts right through her, like she's a teenager again. She knows what to expect and what not to expect. He is not a man given to public displays of affection or declarations of love. Vegeta's a “My actions prove what I care for and it's probably not you” kind of buzzkill. And yet, spending time with him is clarifying. What's important is thrown into stark relief when they're together. Who she is is reduced down to her core essentials. His company demands two questions: What do you want? What are you willing to do to get it?

She looks at the hand he just held, clenching it, before trailing after him. She stares at his strong back as he moves confidently through the brush. Vegeta knows who he is. He's a man that suffers no conflicts with himself, has no problem being himself. But he doesn't advertise who he is. He keeps everything about himself close. Intensely private. Deeply motivated.

She's got her own problems. All these years of her ambitions, of inventions, of frequent and predictable successes...and of pushing people away in pursuit of them. There's no reason what she has with Vegeta would be any different. If anything, last night just proves she can't be trusted to put someone above herself and her goals. She could have told him about the scouter, about the dragon ball. Instead, she'd been so convinced she could do this by herself. Stubborn, proud, she never lets anyone all the way in.

But Vegeta is her secret pleasure, where the rules that once shaped the world just no longer seem to quite fit. An enigma, a puzzle that if she just turns to regard from a different angle, she could solve. And yet doesn't want to. That would steal the pleasure from Vegeta simply being himself.

Is she where she wants to be? She side eyes her neighbor.

Is Vegeta?

“My mother had these.” His low tone interrupts her train of thought. There are two big, lush, flowering bushes outside the doors of the greenhouse. She pulls up beside him, hands gripping her backpack straps.

“Hydrangea.” She darts a smile. “Your mother has great taste.” She lets a heavy stem rest in her head, it's pale blue, star-shaped flowers papery against her palm. “If you adjust the alkalinity of the soil, you can influence the color of the blossoms.”

He stares at her in a way she can't decipher. In a fit of self-consciousness, she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and moves away. “My mother likes to garden. I just dabble.” Inside the oven-hot greenhouse, where hundreds of terracotta pots line the shelves, she smiles up at him suddenly.

“We should get you a plant for your home.”

“Why?”

“Because your home looks like no one cares about it. It looks like you dragged all your furniture out of Mrs. Sotomeyer's trash.”

“So?”

“And if you don't care about your home,” she continues, “do you even care about yourself?”

“What kind of self-help books have you been reading lately?” He's disapproving. Vegeta doesn't need self-help books; he's already perfect. He's got his tight little moral imperatives which serve his desires, and they're the only weapon he requires for this world.

His eyes catch hers as she trails past. Her mouth purses in disagreement. “You say you only put effort into things that matter. Sometimes the little things are just as important as the big things.”

“I'm perfectly great.” His breath brushes her ear. He's right behind her, and she stiffens. “Have you met me?”

“Yes.” She smiles at him over her shoulder, showing neat white teeth. Vegeta knows better than to discount this as a cutesy smile. It's a defiant challenge. “And that's why I think you deserve a plant. Sometimes the best way to take care of yourself is to care for something else.” She points to a cactus. “Succulents and cacti actually thrive under neglect. Maybe we'll start small? You're going to need something that complements your abrasive personality.”

She is the antithesis of that. When she smiles, her cheeks round just under her eyes and her eyes sparkle. There are two faint dimples on either side of her mouth. The hair at her temples has become damp with the humidity of the greenhouse, and curls.

He thinks that if there's anything worth taking care of, it's her.

Instead, he says, “Keep your eyes open.”

…

The magic of the afternoon is severed completely when the elevator door sucks open, and two men step in.

Vegeta freezes beside her.

The men stop, staring in surprise. “Vegeta,” one says with disbelief.

The shock rolls off of Vegeta as if he physically shakes it off. An air of arrogant disdain settles it in its place. The tension is thick enough to bite into. “Zarbon. Ginyu.”

One of them reaches over to press a finger into the floor number without looking away from Vegeta.

Bulma is frozen beside him. Immediately she understands that Vegeta does not like or trust these guys. He has the same rigidity as in the ring, as if at any moment he'll spring into action. He has transformed beside her into an aggressive, defensive fighter, and it's all buzzing, barely contained under his skin.

But now he's relaxing, leaning back against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. Aloof. Contained. Impenetrable.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” His greeting oozes disrespect. Bulma's eyes widen behind her glasses. No matter all their bickering, Vegeta's never taken that tone with her. Compared to this, the insults he lobs at her are sugar sweet. She is suddenly reassessing all of the things he's said to her. Suddenly, they're all looking really flirtatious.

The men watch him carefully, although one of them—beefy and broad—smiles at him. He's dressed in all black tactical gear. Bulma can only hazard a guess why. “Been awhile,” the swat team guy says. “What have you been up to?”

Despite the tension emanating from him alone, Vegeta's voice is arrogantly relaxed. “A little of this, a little of that.”

They dart a glance at her. It's clear they want to ask more, but she's a deterrent. Is she with him?, they're thinking. They stay safe.

“What brings you to the Devil's Heaven? Business or pleasure?” There is suspicion and curiosity behind their hard gazes, but their voices are easy like Vegeta's. They are all three being very careful.

“Both,” he answers smoothly, betraying nothing. “You?”

“A little of this, a little of that,” the big guy grins. “Say, what are you doing tonight? Why don't we meet for a game of House? We'll have a drink and reminisce about old times. We'll catch up.”

She knows in her bones Vegeta hates these guys. So when he says, “I'll be there,” she's shocked mute. But his tone is viciously playful. “I never get tired of beating you.”

Bulma doesn't like the way the big guy smiles. “We'll see,” the big guy offers neutrally. The elevator eases to a careful stop at their floor. “Seven o'clock,” he says.

“Can't wait.”

The doors slide open for them, and they give Vegeta a long look over their shoulders as they step out.

As soon as the elevator door has shut, it's like someone flicks a switch. Vegeta erupts into action. “Fuck,” he spits, startling her. He slaps his hand onto the “lobby” button, sending them back down. Bulma watches tensely. She's never been afraid of Vegeta, but the force of his anger is blunt and hot.

“Vegeta,” she treads carefully. “Who was that?”

The elevator decides to breach the lobby just then, leaving him stalking out into the hall before she can blink.

She's taking long strides to keep up with him. “Vegeta?”

“Old work associates.” His voice is tight. “What the fuck are they doing here?”

He's booking it down the hall and then pushing a door open to who knows where, the unknown swallowing him up. In a burst of anxiety, she hurries after him and explodes outside.

The door lets out back behind the hotel. The stars are close, a bowl above them, and just a few yards away, the surf tugs and surges against the earth in its eternal compromise with the moon. The sun has just sunk below the horizon and the sky is a mirror, inky blue above the sea and freckled with stars. They are far enough from the sandy beach that they remain overlooked, unseen by anyone loitering on the shore after dusk.

He makes his way slowly to the rocky outcrop and stares out over the ocean. The wind ruffles his hair. There's something really wrong with him. Her heart beats fast. “Talk to me.”

“You have to understand.” And then he turns, and her world narrows down to just this man, his eyebrows pinched with apprehension. He draws close and grasps her arms. Startling her, the look he gives her bleeds concern. “I have to go to this.”

“Okay?” Her glasses are slipping down her nose, but she can't push them back up with his hands round her arms.

“These men knew me at my worst, which they would consider my best. I was cut throat back then.” His gaze shies away. “I don't want them to know a single thing about me. But I have to meet them head on. I need to know why they're here.”

“You're going to go talk,” she says slowly, “to some guys you don't trust,” she finishes, waiting for him to fill in the blanks.

He doesn't answer, but he does surprise her. “I could use your help,” he tells her levelly. “But you're not going to like it.” Hands wrapped around her arms, his eyes gleam in the twilight, begging her to...understand? He's more panicked than when she started unbuttoning her shirt in front of a bunch of strangers. He's more undone than when she trailed her finger over the merchandise at the Porno Palace. He's really freaking out.

“Vegeta, I'll do whatever it is you need me to do,” she consoles.

He takes her at her word, and his gaze melts into steel. She is so used to her grumpy, teasing neighbor, that when he side-steps into this hard, stoic fighter, she slams face-first into what's at the core of him: the warrior in the ring with no equal.

“If you do this, you absolutely cannot show emotion. You cannot speak to them. You must let me take the lead, no matter how bad it gets.”

She nods, wide eyed.

“They're going to test me. They want to see what I've been up to the last few years. They'll probe me for weakness, probe you, too. It's imperative they don't discover anything I don't want them to know, but also that I show no fear. Do you understand? I'm going to have to become a different person. The person I used to be when they knew me.”

Her voice is soft. “What kind of person did you used to be?”

He looks away again, his profile all haughty angles against the sea. His grip is still firm on her arms, anchoring them in a storm of emotion.

“I need to know so I know what to expect,” she presses.

She's asking him to give her his dossier. He can barely share what he ate for breakfast. It's an impossible request.

“Bullet point it,” she encourages.

Then he looks at her. Black eyes bore into hers and spin the world into a narrow tunnel. “Made more money in a week than you do in a year. Cars worth more than your house, worth more than a life. I lived to put everyone in the worst mood. Hundred on the dash through a city with my name all over it. I came alive in the night time. I had no competition. Didn't listen to anyone. Always ready for war.”

She's barely breathing.

“And then I went for their boss.” The tension in his voice saws through her. “They haven't seen me since. All they know is...I'm still alive, and they don't know why he'd let me live.” He looks at her harder than ever, his thumbs on the insides of her elbows, gripping her like if he lets go he'll sink and never surface again. “They're gonna try to find out.”

He would never have admitted this unless things were dire.

He trusts her.

She holds his secrets close to her heart. She nods so he knows she follows, so he knows she'll never tell.

With her acceptance, he seems to calm, refocus. “Displays of power are the only language that they understand. I'm going to have to fall back into the man I used to be in order to lure them to talk. Just to survive the damned night with the information I want intact.” His eyes glitter in the low light. “I need you in your best dress.”

He's objective. He's arming her with knowledge, iterating it like a grocery list. Milk, bread, rice, best dress, dagger in the tops of her thigh-hi's.... She allows her scientific, objective self to step up. She can do this. She can remove herself from emotion and comfort for one night. This is just a science experiment.

“They can't know anything about you. You are superficial, so you provide only superficial answers. We've only known each other for a few days. You know nothing about me except that I'm loaded. All you care about is money, power, and sex. All you know about me is that all I care about is money, power, and sex.”

“Is that how it used to be for you?” It's half a whisper.

He's staring hard. “No,” he finally says. “I didn't give a shit about chasing women. I was too single-minded.” He colors with embarrassment, surprising her. “They won't believe it. Keep your glasses on. I'll explain you as my personal assistant.”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice is wobbly. “Now do you take your coffee black or with cream? Mr. Donnegan's on the phone. Your meeting is in fifteen minutes.”

He fixes her a disapproving look. “There will be _no_ banter between us. You can not question them, no matter what they admit, no matter what they know about your project.” His chest rises then falls with a big breath. “We're going to act like we're losing, and then we're going to take it all from them and let them know we had them all along. We'll always have them.” He raises his voice, surprising her. “We are Strength tonight.”

“Strength,” she chants.

Black eyes swim in her vision, hands on her arms keeping her here on this spinning earth. The sea breaks noisily beside them.

“It will be about an hour of game play, but every second counts. I need you in character. Silent. Compliant. I need you to trust me.” He squeezes her arms gently to get her attention. “And just as importantly, I need you to not take to heart anything I say in that hour.” What he wants to say next seems to get caught in his throat. “This is the biggest lie, the biggest game we'll play yet. Do this and I'll buy you whatever you want, take you wherever you want to go.”

“I'm not that shallow, Vegeta,” she snaps. “It's enough for me to know I'm helping you with something important to you.”

His determined scowl brokers no disloyalty. “You're not going to like who I have to become.” But a twinge of worry flashes over him. Like he doesn't think they'll ever recover from this.

She grabs his hand, raises up their fists between them, and squeezes. The surf crashes beside them. “Don't worry, it's impossible for me to like you any less.”

Despite the mood, they smile at each other.


	11. Chapter 11

The only thing that shows he slips is the breath Vegeta lets out when she meets him at the bottom of the spiral staircase. Then he looks the other way, like everything is judged lacking, including her, and nothing in this foyer is worth his attention.

She can't take her eyes off of him as they advance across the foyer, but she tries. Ogling is not befitting a secretary. She pushes her glasses up her nose and tries to look anywhere else but him. Bulma worries her bottom lip, because this is going to be the biggest lie she's ever told. And if it's not convincing enough, they're dead meat. Not even in an alternate universe could she pretend to be his submissive. But tonight, it doesn't matter what she thinks.

He rules tonight, as if the full moon had drawn him out of his skin, howling him into his truest, most animal self. But this isn't an impulsive beast acting on its instincts—there is a top of the food chain predator looking out from behind his eyes. He'd been heart-stoppingly handsome but approachable in tweed the evening they went to the Moonlight. He'd been beautifully stripped down to all that was male virility when he'd parted the ropes of the boxing ring. This is a totally different man. She can tell from a mile away that this suit costs as much as her mortgage, deepest black and starkest white. If the fighter in him had a scarier version, a leveled up version, this was it. The bones of his face are primitive, black eyes cutting, knowing every part of her without having the courtesy to ask. It's a mask of humanity slipped over something that, tonight, clearly isn't. She remembers when she first saw him outside his front door in just a tee and sweatpants, how intimidating he seemed. That Vegeta is kindergarten next to this one, who looks like he'd end a man just for looking at him. This is a man perfectly in control, who, in Bulma's wildest imagination—running rampant at the moment—reinforces that control by selectively dispensing violence through a force of devoted fighters. He is the star of the coolest, most gruesome revenge movie. She would toss popcorn into her mouth and watch him issue orders on screen. She has so many questions, but the details of his past are irrelevant now, because what he was—what he is—is on full display. There's no longer any denying it. This is no rule-honoring athlete, no petty criminal, no grumpy neighbor. He was—is—the king of a savage kingdom.

Just what did Vegeta used to do?

He doesn't offer her his arm or even acknowledge that she's there. But their stride matches effortlessly, ensuring that she is just behind his shoulder as they press towards the casino entrance. He is straight backed as ever, but there's something wounding about his strut, a swagger that isn't quite a movement but a way of being. It's more loose and more arrogant than she's used to. He projects power without even trying. People get out of his way.

With mussy hair, smoked out eyes, and a slinky pewter dress—and with her big, ugly glasses and a notebook clutched to her chest, just as she'd been in the elevator—Bulma feels like a different person, too. She is still not sure what's happening, only that it is and she has to keep up. She doesn't even have her neighbor to lend her support in this. Despite Vegeta walking right next to her, she's alone. She doesn't recognize them as they pass by a bank of mirrored windows.

Vegeta glides into the casino like he owns the place, pausing at the entrance. Drawing eyes, before flowing forward with that arrogant cadence.

The two men from the elevator, now dressed up in suits, sit at a table in the center of the cavernous room, talking low, coming into focus from across the room.

True to form, Bulma stays absolutely silent and allows Vegeta to lead. She is like the passenger in a car, a guest at a movie theater. She has no agency as she watches the story unfold.

Vegeta slides into the tufted loveseat at the game table, leans back, and smirks. She keeps her eyes away from following the long line his broad neck makes and pins her eyes to the wall. She doesn't dare sit down without his permission. He doesn't ask her to. No one even acts like she's there.

Bulma doesn't know this Vegeta. She doesn't trust him, doesn't understand him. She has no leverage anymore, no advantages of a woman who's a little bit Something More. She wonders, not for the first or last time, if this was a good idea. If it was ever a good idea to loop him into this.

Her neighbor smiles shark-toothed at the men, and the whole world shrinks to the three of them. They smile unkindly right back.

“It's been a long time, Vegeta,” the big one says. An unassuming waiter with eyes trained on the ground appears at Vegeta's side, but the big one cuts in. “He'll have what we're having.”

And then it happens, faster than she'd anticipated. Her fears manifest, slamming into her at full force.

She's targeted.

“Who is this, Vegeta?” The slender one—Zarbon—asks. His voice is a soft, stately chime. He is modelesque, androgynously beautiful, with long, flowing hair and a pinched nose. The thick, muscled one's every action is aggressive, his voice harsh and sarcastic, but this one lacks any emotion at all, like a bored aristocrat.

Vegeta is totally apathetic. “My personal assistant.” As if the mention of her is just a message he crumples up and throws into the trash.

The men don't say anything, waiting. They want more information before they give any themselves. They don't think she's safe. Bulma sweats behind Vegeta's shoulder. She keeps her eyes on the wall.

“A level of secrecy comes with the position,” Vegeta only says, cruelly chuckling under his breath at their worry. He won't say anymore. She's not worth explaining, and he won't explain himself to anyone.

“You keep a pretty assistant.” Pretty isn't a compliment, it's an insult. It's flowery, shallow, insignificant. Ginyu rakes her up and down. She is on display, representing Vegeta like a display sign: _'2 cantaloupes for the price of one.'_ Soon he'll check her teeth, draw some conclusion about Vegeta afterward. “Must be a new era for you, to let a woman so close.”

“Business has grown,” Vegeta answers smoothly, crossing his ankles, “and I won't be bothered with the minor details. I let the help deal with small concerns.” He sips his sake, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. The mocking hook at the corner of his mouth hasn't released its claws from his lips. On first glance, she wouldn't like this man.

Bulma is staring at the ground, silent and docile, but she's hanging on to every word. She is on the hunt for any clues, any hidden meanings. She has it easy, honestly. If she doesn't have to talk, she can focus on listening.

Everything the men say is designed to cut. She is a minor detail. She's pretty. She's just a woman. It's nothing she hasn't heard before. But everything Vegeta is laying down is so subtle that no one else recognizes he is sowing seeds of rot. _“Business has grown”_ is so mundane that they just accept it, and suddenly he's a tycoon. Well, what did she know? Maybe he was, and it was just one of his many secrets. She is reminded how dangerous the deal she made with him last night is. Who was Vegeta, really?

A knowing grin melts across Ginyu's face. It's clear, he enjoys needling Vegeta. “You fucking her? Or is she for sale?”

It's like she's tripped over a curb and landed face first on the concrete. Bulma is shocked stupid before that bruised feeling of being scandalized crashes over her. She feels the blood leave her face, but Ginyu isn't watching her. He's watching Vegeta.

He's probing.

If Vegeta reacts emotionally, he'll know that Bulma is special somehow. If they were lovers, Vegeta might take offense. Even if she were an appreciated employee, Vegeta might step up to defend her.

It'd be suicide. It would make Bulma vulnerable to any machinations or as leverage to use against Vegeta. Bulma also understands the implications—no one would ever voluntarily be with Vegeta. It's a stab at his value. A dig at his ego.

Instead, Vegeta sinks back into his chair and lights a cigar from between his teeth with a match. He blows smoke, and then looks up from under thick, fiercely angled brows at the two men with utter impudence. “Neither. She's here in case something comes up that's beneath me.”

Bulma Briefs is insignificant. She is no one. She is a smudge on a photo taken of these three intimidating men glaring at each other. And just like that, she watches as they accept it. They've trust he thoroughly screens and selects his crew. To some degree, Bulma realizes, they respect him, even for all their jabs. And just like that, she's safe.

She's in.

One by one the dealer throws the cards neatly in front of each man until there are seven, and then moves a pile of chips into the middle of the table. He then takes several steps back, leaving her alone with the sharks.

“So,” Ginyu prompts, “it's been three years. Naturally, we're real curious. No one's heard anything. You an accountant? Started a family?” He laughs. “No one knows what happened, except him.” There's a kind of wary recognizance when he says 'him,' a shiver than runs through the group. “And he keeps his own counsel.”

“If he's not telling us,” Zarbon slides a card face-up onto the table, “then he doesn't want us to know.”

Vegeta takes a sip of his sake. “I wouldn't want to give it away, then.” And Vegeta smiles.

“We know you're still in the game,” Ginyu accuses, looking straight at him. “The Starboard docks have your name all over them.”

“And we can't go to O'Harrah's without seeing your underlings,” Zarbon adds, a complaint.

“Nappa and Raditz always made good dogs,” Ginyu grins. “But your crew stays small. We haven't heard a peep about whatever it is you're up to.” He looks at Bulma, and her mouth dries. “Wish there was someone we could ask.”

Vegeta shuffles through his cards. “Touch one of my people and I'll kill you.”

He says it so calmly that it takes a moment for her to process. Then the air leaves her lungs.

Vegeta says it like he's done it a million times. Like it's as easy as washing dishes, folding laundry. Like he's not joking.

And the other guys, these men who knew Vegeta better than she does, they buy it. Briefly, they're humbled. They don't say anything, don't meet his eyes.

They believe him.

Ginyu breaks the tense silence with palpable aggravation. “It has to be enriching the boss's pocketbook, whatever it is you're doing. He'd never allow it, otherwise.” Ginyu is like a dog with a bone, shaking and shaking it.

“I'm just doing my part to make sure money is flowing,” Vegeta says, placing a card between them. It's only a four, adjacent to Ginyu's jack and Zarbon's nine. Ginyu's eyes flash with humor when he sees it.

“I could see that at Starboard, when we found what you left.” The three men still and look at each other. They won't say it, but it's something terrible, she knows it. The thick silence stretches painfully—although Vegeta looks like he thrives in it, like he couldn't be more comfortable than this suspenseful, shitty situation. Then Ginyu grins. “Your fucking signature written all over it. Blood and rubble everywhere. Like old times!” And a laugh whoops out of him.

Some chips move back and forth. Vegeta places down another card, and so do the other men.

“What I can't understand...is the fights.” Zarbon's cool exterior cracks, puzzled. “We both know you're capable of so much more.” _'More'_ is suggestive. Yearning. “Why lower yourself to that level?” Zarbon's hooded eyes are deep, jeweled green in the light, latching onto Vegeta. “Unless it's not by choice? It certainly couldn't be for money? The money's not as good as the underground fights....”

“You have too much pride,” Ginyu says harshly. “So the question is...who's got you over their knee?”

She can tell this throws Vegeta off his game a little. He tenses beside her. Oh no, he doesn't get upset when the guy calls Bulma a whore, but now his damned pride is wounded because someone suggested he might be on the B team and not the A team. She watches his jaw tick.

“Sometimes it's not a matter of who has you under their thumb,” Vegeta looks up from under even brows. “But who is betting they have you under their thumb, and wrong.”

Hanging on to every word, they can't look away from him as they lay their cards down.

Vegeta leans back, holding their gaze. “But you're not completely wrong.”

Bulma does her best not to show surprise at Vegeta's admission. Her face is a mask. She stands still as marble. A statue, a prop.

“There's something I want,” Vegeta says.

“You never could say no to something you wanted,” Ginyu tsks.

“And to get it,” Vegeta continues, as if Ginyu'd never spoken, “it's in my best interest to appear harmless.”

“It's hard to see you of all people as _harmless_.” Ginyu balks. “Even if it meant saving your life! You're not someone who'd roll over for anyone.”

Vegeta's teeth gleam as he grins sharply. She understands why he doesn't smile very often. Vegeta's smiles don't exactly put anyone at ease. “Sometimes the greater satisfaction is in the surprise before the display of power.”

“Now that sounds like Vegeta,” Zarbon complains, fitting his cheek against his fisted knuckles, elbow propped on the table.

“I can be a nice guy.” Vegeta's grin grows bigger. “Sit,” her orders her, and she takes the seat on the tufted loveseat beside him automatically, mostly out of shock. “But it always serves to remind them who's in charge.”

His eyes never leave Ginyu's as he drains the sake from the tumbler.

Chips move, a new set of cards are placed down. The other two scan the game in front of them with confidence and without concern. They're winning.

“What's important enough for you to lower yourself for, I wonder?” Ginyu refuses to let this go. “I mean, how humiliating...”

She gets it. They're hoping to chip away at Vegeta's pridefulness. It's his hubris, his Achilles heel. It's why she gets under his skin. She treats him like a normal person, and it's like he's never gotten used to it.

What had hurt Vegeta, that he had built up his pride brick by brick, patched it up and forged it into weaponized armor?

“There is something I'm keeping my eye on,” Vegeta only says neutrally, tacking a card down.

“Oh?”

Vegeta shapes the lit end of his cigar in the ashtray before resting it on the edge and leans in, clasping his hands on the table. His voice lowers. “I want this city.”

“South City wasn't enough for you?” Ginyu laughs. “Shit, you grew up there. And he's there.” Ginyu's eyes gleam. “I figured if there's any city you'd want, it'd be that one.”

Bulma's eyes widen.

“There's something making its way around this city that might affect the result of that.”

“There's a lot of interest in the underground market right now,” Zarbon says carefully. “A lot of different players, sifting for information about the same object.” Those green eyes glint, hard as jade.

This is it. They know something about her project.

Bulma's heart hammers a staccato beat.

“Let them sift.” Vegeta leans back, laying down a card coolly. “I have a source that knows how to use it.”

Her stomach drops.

“No one cares about that yet,” Ginyu argues. “Right now, it's the hunt that matters. The capture.”

“They're fleas on the backs of wolves. They can't look past their own noses.” Vegeta leans his elbow on the armrest. “Whoever wins it will be hamstrung. They'll sit there, clutching it in their hands, incapable of using it. Unless they know someone. Like I do.” A wisp of a smile curls the corner of his lips. She hates it on principle.

“Do you remember,” Ginyu interjects, “East Hills?”

Vegeta stiffens beside her.

“The mobster families who ruled there, they thought they were invincible. You remember? Self-made, they'd climbed the ladder the hard way, bloody knuckles and everyone a stepping stone, and thought they'd finally come out on top. Two families vying for control, they milked that city dry when they weren't leaving gun casings and bullet holes everywhere. Thought they deserved our city next. He wanted to test you. He thought you'd go in there, fists flying, and get knocked on your ass. We couldn't wait for the good laugh we'd get out of the example the rookie made.”

Ginyu's voice lowers, with a rare solemnity that chills her. “Imagine our surprise when we heard the next day, that in the thick of night, both mobster families were gone. Blown out like candles. Every lynch pin, every soldier, every heir. Not even any grieving widows were left. The neighborhood had been purged. You could put a for sale sign on every other house.” Ginyu observes Vegeta with rare consideration. “You didn't want that town, which surprised him. No. You came back to report, complaining that there hadn't been anyone worth fighting. _'Send me somewhere worth my time next time, or don't send me at all,'_ you told him.”

The following silence is so thick she can't draw air into her lungs. She hears herself make a sound in her throat, like choking. He tenses beside her.

Ginyu finally continues. “The kind of life we lead, it's blood in and blood out. We formed a different opinion of you that day. But I can't help but think, what does Vegeta know, besides blood and broken bones? Why would he try to be something he's not?”

“There are other ways to win cities,” Vegeta only says.

“Not if you play the way you're playing this game,” Ginyu snorts, shattering the tension.

“How can we trust that you have our best interests in mind?” Zarbon interjects, staring. “Loyalty was never your specialty. No one could trust you as far as they could throw you.”

Vegeta only smiles deeper. “I have his best interests in mind,” Vegeta distinguishes. “That's all that matters.”

“We'll see if Vegeta does the right thing,” Ginyu sighs, suddenly done with arguing about it, placing another card down.

“He's never had any concept of the right thing,” Zarbon argues.

“I'm wounded,” Vegeta says insincerely, sharp teeth gleaming. “You'll find out very soon whether or not I'm a man of my word.”

And then Vegeta places four cards down.

All four of them stare down at the table.

Every single card is a king.

The other men blink, and then Ginyu is cursing, shifting in his chair, and Zarbon finally cracks, a tic throbbing at his temple.

The dealer scoops the chips and clears the table as Vegeta flows to his feet. She's jumping to her feet beside him, notepad and pen against her chest, but he's already turning away from the table.

“Hopefully we'll have a fight worth watching soon,” Ginyu calls after them. “It's been a long time since I've seen you brought low.” He clucks his tongue. “I'd love to see you up against that Saiyan again. Watch him wipe the floor with you, just like last time.”

Vegeta is stiff beside her. “Change is coming,” he cautions over his shoulder, and then darkens the tables, the bar, the glittering couples they pass in the dimly lit game room. At the staircase, he doesn't slow, he just orders her to their room without even glancing in her direction, and strides across the hall, like he owns it, her, and everyone in it.

…

When the door finally opens, she's perched on the trunk at the end of the bed, but stands as he closes the door behind him. Her voice is tight. “Everything okay?”

Vegeta just stands there for a moment.

Her eyes are bright blue behind the smoky black eye makeup, her hair falling in waves over her shoulder, but her heels have already been toed off, her glasses folded on the night stand. She's been fidgeting at the edge of the bed for way too long. She hates that he just left her there to stew in a melting pot of worry and confusion, but tonight, she practices patience. They are a team, forged in the fires.

Tonight, they'd both extended trust. Strength.

Loyalty.

He's looking at her like she's the only person who's ever cared about him in the whole world, with a kind of awed humility that is so far removed from the man that he was an hour ago that it's whiplash. Everything she's going to ask him flies out the window under that regard.

It's like someone has pulled the line of a bow taut and released him. He's across the room in only a few steps, and as soon as he's close he reaches out, sinking his hands into her hair and cradling her head.

Vegeta doesn't touch anyone like this, not even her, who he keeps an arm's length away. Being touched with affection by Vegeta is like the biggest, baddest lion in the jungle has curled up around you, purring. Being touched with affection by Vegeta makes her feel like the most special woman in the whole world.

“I should be the one asking you that,” he rebuffs. There's strain in his voice, a species of anxiety she's never heard from him before. It's concern for someone else.

He rests his forehead against hers as his thumb traces the arc of her cheekbone. And then they're both angling forward, led by a single idea.

His mouth presses her parted lips first, and then she's opening, kissing that haughty upper lip, and then the lower one, slowly, graciously. One of his hands finds its place at the small of her back and he holds her together, because being close right now is the only thing making any sense.

“I know you have a thousand questions. But this is the truth of it,” he growls. “I'm right here, when I could be anywhere else.”

It's all she'd ever need in the world, tasting him, breathing him. Her questions melt into the background. She could do this all night. This back and forth, this cycle of need and give and test and analyze the results and do it again.

She wraps both arms around his neck, every molecule of her firing with lambent need, and he seems to feel it, too. They don't know whether it's destroying them or incinerating all the bullshit and making them purer and stronger, smelting them together. Her hand drifts down his sides under his jacket, and his breath hitches a little. Vegeta angles her mouth, his fingers pulls in her hair, and kisses her even deeper, more demanding. It relaxes her, to be needed, to be wanted.

He's being careful with her, she can feel it, even as he makes his demands. None of that tidal wave of fury stalking towards the beach, but restraint. Discipline. Purpose. Hints of the man he was in the casino. All that focus of both men. Except _she_ is the goal this time.

But where's the fun when Vegeta is contained? Wild, uninhibited, fearless—that's the man she knows is under the cover, past the curtain of secrets and spartan realism. If he feels at all as needy and wild as she does, then she's going to yank the leash. Bulma wants him to break it and barrel for her.

Just as the tether is about to snap, someone busts down the door.

...

Two men rush Vegeta, precise as arrows from the door, which slams up against the wall in surprise. Vegeta pivots and places himself in front of her with little time to spare. He locks the first one, but they have the advantage of surprise. He is still trying to figure out the best means of attack while keeping an eye on her. She stands behind the chair helplessly, but she can't stand to watch him divide his interests. He's on the defensive, not the offensive, and it doesn't seem to come naturally to him.

Bulma hates feeling helpless. So she does what she can for her team. She picks up the nearest lamp and smashes it over the first guys head. He goes down. It's a shame because it's a really beautiful lamp.

Vegeta takes just a second to stare at her in disbelief before he's exchanging blows with the second guy. This guy seems the smarter of the two, and keeps his eye on both of them. Vegeta is just as good at wrestling as he is fist fighting, because they exchange blows, and then lock arms, and then exchange blows, and fall to the floor and lock limbs again. The guy is surprisingly good, and that's the only reason he's able to put up a fight, because Vegeta is lightning reflexes and precise power.

It ends when Bulma strides over with another lamp. The intruder pulls a gun out and aims it at her. “Drop it,” he says.

Vegeta and Bulma both freeze.

The lamp shatters, spraying across the hardwood floor once it slips from her hands. The intruder stares flatly, gives her a look like, _“Really?”_

“You told me to drop it,” she reminds him.

He leads them down the hall with a gun in Vegeta's back, dragging his unconscious cohort behind them.

…

“Why are you here sneaking around my casino,” thunders a voice.

Bulma turns furious eyes on the tall, shaved headed asshole that had them dragged from their room as they're shoved inside an office.

Vegeta doesn't even hide it. “I needed in your gardens to know if you were hiding something.”

The guy doesn't even miss a beat. Not so much as a flicker of surprise skips across his features. His stare is intensely intimidating, sharp as a tack. Sitting behind an oversized teak desk in a room top to bottom with glass windows and monitors displaying dozens of black and white surveillance videos, the man sits upright in his chair like a king. Piccolo, the name plate says at the corner of his desk. This must be the eponymous devil of the Devil's Heaven.

“Why?”

Vegeta slouches in his chair and stares at the wall. Vegeta's face goes slack with utter apathy, like the high school slacker that can't be bothered to answer the teacher's questions. “Because I'm searching for a magic ball.”

“Vegeta!” She hisses, and then lowers her forehead into her palm. She can't believe him. Why would he just admit that to this asshole whose lackeys just tried to cream them?

The man's eyes flick to her and back to Vegeta again. Thankfully she's had lots of experience receiving Vegeta's glares, and so she scowls right back at him.

“The register says you're here on your honeymoon.”

“The honeymoon suites offer the best position defensively. Best floor. Furthest from entrances and exits.”

“And here I just thought you were a romantic,” Bulma grumbles beside him.

Vegeta gives her a look like _“Shut. Up.”_ that she tries to shred with her own look.

“You don't look like much of a double agent,” Piccolo cuts to her, “nor a very obedient wife.”

“I'm an excellent wife,” she snaps.

The Devil smirks, and it's scary. It's not like Vegeta's. It's not willing to indulge her. His voice deepens with deadly seriousness. “Why don't you tell me what you two are doing here?”

“Why don't _you_ tell me how you and Vegeta know each other?” She counters.

The men just look at each other.

“Demanding, isn't she,” Piccolo finally says.

“It's why she's previously divorced,” Vegeta grumps, looking away.

Bulma cuts him a look that he pretends he doesn't see.

Piccolo gets serious again. “Why are you going all this way to help her?”

The men stare at each other. Vegeta doesn't answer.

Piccolo seems to accept this. “Why didn't you scramble the cameras?”

Bulma gapes. “What?”

“Because I wanted to see how you'd respond to find someone in the gardens. If there was a reaction, you were hiding something. I'd find out what.”

“Why did you break into my office to watch tapes of the front drive?”

The corner of Vegeta's lip snicks up. “I just love watching cars driving back and forth. Don't you?”

The two men glare at each other. Then Vegeta's face goes blank with indifference, like the high school slacker that can't be bothered to answer the teacher's questions. “Someone left with something I wanted.”

“The car you nearly ripped the door off of last night.”

Why was Vegeta just giving everything away? Was he scared? Vegeta didn't look scared at all. And Piccolo was...intimidating...but he didn't look mad. She was getting madder by the second. Every time they embarked on a new undertaking in Operation Get Her Project Back, she had no idea what Vegeta was up to. He never looped her in. She wasn't worth telling, evidently. Her simmer becomes a furious stew.

“We've been watching you since you arrived. The surveillance has been very interesting.” Piccolo looks at her, then Vegeta. Allows that to sink in.

Vegeta grinds his teeth.

“Have you swept everyone else's domains?”

“Yes.”

“And I take it this was one of your last resorts?”

Vegeta doesn't answer, but she sees his lips hook down slightly. He's unhappy to be called out like that. Finally, an emotion. And it's about his pride! The trouble with liking this man was that she both admired his confidence but also wanted to jumped all over his it until she'd stomped it flat and tossed it into a fiery inferno.

“Why did you meet Zarbon and Ginyu?”

Every question this guy asks is a statement. Bulma shifts in her seat with aggravation. She feels like giving him a hard lesson on declaratives.

“I ran into them in the elevator. They invited me to a game of House. Didn't feel like I had much of a choice.”

“There's always a choice. Which one did you make?”

“The one that involved getting them to talk.”

“Homesick?” It's the first thing Piccolo says that seems designed to hurt. Bulma gets it, even if she doesn't understand Vegeta's old life or the quantum entanglement of inside references between these two. He's asking Vegeta if he is plotting to have his old life back again.

Vegeta's frown deepens with insult. “Collecting information.”

“Convenient, if an in is what you're after.”

“Highly inconvenient,” Vegeta argues, fuming.

“You're really digging yourself into a hole here,” Piccolo finally snaps, and glances accusingly at Bulma. A flash of anger has her nearly jumping up out of her seat to yank him over the desk by his lapels. They glower at each other.

“I do what I have to do,” Vegeta snipes back, rubbing his temples like he's fighting a headache.

“Well. Seeing as you're here on business, and not pleasure—“ he flicks a glance at Bulma, and just like he'd planned, she's offended—“let me make you a business proposition.” A smirk pulls at Piccolo's stiff oval face. “Don't you feel like it's time you've moved up in the world?”

Vegeta is suddenly furious. “You know I can't.”

“Can't? That's a frightful word to hear coming out of your mouth. It'll be a new year, new season. Naturally, you've ascended. Then...”

“I'm not fighting Kakarot for you.” Vegeta's blunt and harsh. “I don't owe you that.”

“You both profit. ChiChi supports it.”

“Because she thinks he'll win!”

“But we know better.” Piccolo smiles.

“Are we done here?”

The men stare at each other, the tension thick and taut.

“Hercule is having a thing in the conference hall at noon. You might go down to see him.”

Vegeta snorts in absolute disdain.

“He may have your last lead.”

Vegeta's eyes narrow.

As if both men suddenly decide things are done, they turn from each other, and the tension dissolves. Vegeta stalks out of the room, expecting her to follow.

Outside the door, so fast she doesn't see it happen, the guy who'd burst into their room crumples to his knees limply, Vegeta's arm an iron band across his throat, squeezing.

“Don't you ever point a gun at her again,” she overhears him say. Vegeta doesn't have to explain why. The goon is nodding before Vegeta is done with the sentence. Piccolo doesn't intervene.

“Congratulations, you two,” Piccolo's flat voice comes from behind them.


	12. Chapter 12

. . .

DAY ELEVEN

. . .

There's a knock on the door that causes Bulma to roll over, eyes squinting against bright sun. And suddenly it's morning.

She's tangled up in something that she can't roll out from under. Blearily, she realizes it's an ankle, pinning down her shin. Vegeta sleeps next to her, his back against the wall, arms folded loosely over his chest. His lips are parted and his face relaxed with sleep. When the second knock sounds, his eyebrows drag together and one eye squints open.

She steals a moment to drink in the sight of him before his eyes cut to the side and catch her in the act. She smashes her pillow into her face so he can't see the heat steal over her cheeks, but he just rips it off, lips edging up the face hovering above her. "Caught you."

Ignoring him—or pretending to, because she could never just ignore Vegeta, the man who is constantly at her the edge of her periphery even when they're not together—Bulma throws herself out of bed and lurches her way to open the door with half-open eyes. Vegeta steps in her path and reaches around her, cracking the door. Her forehead smacks his back as she draws up short.

"What," he snaps through the meager space between the door and door frame.

"Breakfast," a waiter chimes, and from around Vegeta's side, Bulma watches Vegeta's gaze sear the breakfast plates with suspicion.

"Oh." She stares down at the plates with hungry absorption, forcing Vegeta to move to the side. She hadn't had a proper dinner at all yesterday. As far as she's concerned, Vegeta owes her this breakfast. Even if the cart is strewn with silver, wedding-bell shaped confetti, and the shared plate of pancakes topped with a little groom and bride. Bulma doesn't care if they're Liar pancakes; she's practical enough to enjoy them.

"Is that it?" Vegeta grumps at the waiter, refusing to allow him inside.

"Vegeta, really," Bulma scolds him. "Thank you," she tells the server, smiling graciously to offset Vegeta's scary countenance. Wherever she goes, she is playing his PR manager.

"You're welcome!" The waiter bows nervously, before bustling down the hall. "And congratulations on your marriage!" He waves over his shoulder. "You make a beautiful couple!"

"Two days in and I'm already ready for a break from it," Bulma murmurs. She tugs the cart in the front door just as Vegeta picks up his duffle bag and slips his feet in his shoes.

She watches in shock as he strides toward the door. "You _just_ woke up."

Just as her brows come crashing down and her upper lip lifts in a snarl, Vegeta's lips are on her own. She freezes, watching him watch her, half-lidded, as he draws back, eases in, and sucks her haughty upper lip lightly into his mouth.

"Stay out of trouble," he barks before the door shuts behind him.

She plays with the idea of throwing open the door and yelling down the hallway, but decides it's not worth her time. If he's leaving her to shake loose information and then not share, as usual, then he has to expect she's going to make moves, too. Everything they do is quid-pro-quo, an eye for an eye. A fair and balanced war.

Even after a night like last night?, a soft part of her asks.

She doesn't even know where to begin with last night—where to put it, what drawer in her mental filing cabinet to shove it into.

She has so many questions. Nothing seems different this morning, yet everything has changed.

She can still feel his hands gliding up her thighs, his mouth bearing down on hers. It scares her how much she needs that again. Nothing makes sense anymore. They used to play the game to win. Now she isn't sure.

The syrup oozes over the top of the pancakes as she works her fork into their soft center. The truth is, Bulma's thankful he left. It's not like they'd discussed what had happened last night. No, they'd grumpily trudged back to their room after the impromptu meeting with Piccolo, fought over who got to put the key in the door, and then quit talking to each other. They'd just...needed a minute. She was sure normal people would have talked over what had happened last night. But they're not normal. Her fingers play over the little bride and groom, their fat faces, smiles so big their eyes are just lines. No doubt Vegeta expected her to burst with questions the moment they'd shut the door behind them. She could see the tension in the line of his shoulders. Instead, they'd stared shell-shocked at the TV until she'd drawn the covers up over her head. It had been a trying couple of days.

Once they pop in to visit whoever this 'Hercule' character is, they'll finally be headed home. If Vegeta was going to walk out the door after last night without communicating what he was up to or even a 'Good morning,' she certainly isn't going to take the high road. Stubborn resolve fills her. She's going to let Vegeta carry all the weight of it this morning, if he's so damned intent on it. Meanwhile, she's going to eat all of his share of these pancakes. And then she's going to make a trip to that goddamned pool.

...

Hours melt by in the sun, drifting on the water, the surf marking time with absolutely no regard for any of her insignificant human problems. She floats on liquid glass in this golden hour, finger trailing the water. A white bikini on a hot pink inflatable lounge, she attracts more than a few eyes. Like most beautiful women, she is both completely indifferent and yet seems to demand this homage.

Bulma has a lot to think about, and with Vegeta who-knows-where, she has the opportunity to process what has happened in the last 24 hours. But she doesn't even know where to start.

It wasn't her project she'd learned the most about, like she'd expected, but her neighbor.

Vegeta had once lived a terribly violent life. It was clear that whatever he'd done with his co-workers had been dark and illicit. She knew this kind of stuff happened, but normal people like her, who liked shopping, subscribing to cooking magazines, and going wine tasting, they didn't meet people like this, they didn't get involved with criminal elements. This kind of stuff only happened in movies. Except the villain had retired and moved in next door.

Is that why he had been so anxious last night on the beach? He knew just what she might find out about him? He knew just what it might cost, to have her there? So why ask it of her? He could have left her behind, although Bulma couldn't promise she would have stayed put. Was this an exercise in extending trust? How much could he trust his neighbor to keep secret? To enable? If so, what a risk he took. Now Vegeta might have lost more than he'd won by bringing her along. There's no way he isn't going to have to spill the beans to her now. It was just a matter of timing.

Unintended consequences aside, it was practical to request her help. Ginyu or Zarbon might have said something which he didn't understand the context behind. He needed the expert there at the scene to pick up clues. In the end, she had been given very little clues, but so many burning questions.

Last night's conversations had been...her breath leaves her in a rush. Overwhelming. The hair-wrenching tension at the casino and the cryptic conversation in Piccolo's glass-and-mirrors sanctum had raised more questions than answered. She couldn't even begin to decipher it all, let alone unpack how she was feeling about it. How she was feeling about him.

So, the scientist in her encourages, start with the basics. What does she know?

Vegeta was once part of a criminal structure in South City. He was out of the game, but maybe not quite. Whatever it is that Zarbon and Ginyu are doing, Vegeta might still be involved—and maybe that was why their acting had been so important last night. Vegeta had needed to convince them that he was impenetrable. Why?

They'd said Vegeta was definitely up to something at the Starboard docks. Vegeta had responded that he was just doing his part to keep money flowing. What was he up to? Was it where he went during the day? He was trying to appear harmless, he'd said, to take power. Who was he trying to fool? He wanted her city, he told them. Was there a grain of truth to that?

Just what kind of role had he played in South City? Working for _'him?'_

It's enough to give her pause.

Did she want to be emotionally involved with a criminal?

And what was the deal with the fights? All three men had brought it up, to Vegeta's chagrin. She'd thought, when she was first getting to know her surly neighbor, that he was just a boxer, a small-time athlete with a matching bad attitude. Maybe he was involved in some petty crime, or had been previously, she'd figured. But, in his sweatpants and a plain white tee, with his trademark expression of doom and gloom and his decrepit house, she had invented a subconscious justification for it all: she'd figured it was an issue of money. It could still be about money, she reasoned, but a man like Vegeta didn't seem money motivated. Cash might be a side effect of a greater success that he wouldn't object to, but Vegeta wanted what was critical underneath it all: the upper hand. In the ring, in their arguments and on their missions, he battled for dominance. He was at his happiest when he was lording something over someone, at his worst when he was in a position to be potentially humiliated. Pride. He is the epitome of the concept, the Lord of that thorny, deadly sin.

So why would he willingly fight in a lesser league? And just how much more intense did it get? The fighting he was capable of, it was... _amazing_. It was passion and yet discipline, pure, focused willpower. He was truly himself when pitted against someone else, comfortable in his own skin in a way that made Bulma forget how to breathe. But both Zarbon and Piccolo had acted as if the fight she'd watched was child's play, that there was another level to these fights that Vegeta _couldn't_ participate in. It's shocking to consider. Vegeta did what he wanted, and he took training to fight more seriously than anything else in the world. What on earth could prevent him from competing?

Her thoughts land on something unformed. A feeling that if, like an archaeologist, she could just uncover why he couldn't fight and why he'd left South City, the rest of the answers to her many questions would fill in and form a whole picture.

There are so many things she wants to know. They've stacked so fast, towering precariously. The days of Vegeta hiding things from her feel like its about at its end.

...

She heads to the open bar, because Vegeta is still nowhere to be found, and the afternoon sun is already sweeping towards its place of rest at the horizon. She chooses a corner booth and cracks the newest journal of Physicists Monthly. Last month she had had a guest spot, an editorial piece. This month she was too busy running around with a criminal.

She orders lunch and a bottle of wine, and eats alone, except for two men, one only minutes after the other, who sidle up to her flirtatiously. She shuts them down quickly and pours another glass, flipping pages of an article titled _'Upsilon Quarks and Strange Matter'_ with painted fingernails. After the third glass has been sucked dry, Bulma feels better about the state of her empire. While it may be in tatters and on fire, she is now refreshed. She can re-strategize and reposition. The sun had gifted her with some good vibes and she's feeling pampered, and that kind of outlook can change everything for a woman.

Another man slides into the booth with her, this time shamelessly slipping in on her side. Her head snaps up to scare him off with a glare and it's Vegeta, staring back at her.

His arm is pressed against hers he's so close. "I thought I told you to stay put this morning," he says. His eyes are cool, darkest, deepest brown. You can barely tell where his pupils begin and his irises end. He sounds neither mad nor surprised.

"Did you really think I was going to mind you," she only says, the rim of her glass shadowing her face as she takes another sip.

"Your third and it's not even supper time?" He tsks.

"The drinks or the men?"

He skirts her an eyeroll. "The drinks, Ms. Briefs. And those men aren't even in the same league as me."

"Hmph. I'm a big girl. I can have three drinks. Or men," she lingers, "if I want to."

"Ambitious."

She wonders how many she needs until she lets go and kisses him again. Would he protest if she leapt on him here in the booth and finished what they started last night? She is really a mess. Incomplete, like a cake that's been left unfinished. She's a woman who's always gotten what she wants. Now she can't have her project, and now there's desperation every time this man is near or far.

In this tumultuous new world, she can at least count on one thing. She looks up at him from under blue brows and baits him. "You're a man that is currently at the top of my shit list."

"At the top?" Vegeta pops the cherry from her bowl of fruit into his mouth and chews. He's in fine form. "I'm honored."

She wants to be the cherry in his mouth.

"You're looking at me funny, Ms. Briefs," Vegeta says, the corner of his lips crawling up as he pops another piece of fruit in his mouth.

"Wondering if I should keep drinking to deal with you," she smooths the rim of her glass with her finger and looks up at him under her lashes, "or stop now before I've lost any dignity."

He snorts. "What dignity? Not wearing that swim suit."

Her eyes grow wide as saucers, and then squish narrow. "You think my swim suit is too revealing?"

"Irrelevant."

"Contextual. Were you spying on me?" A surge of mischief seizes her. "Or, better yet," she says, leaning in until her lips are pressed against the curl of his ear, "while you watched, were you imagining what it might be like to run your hand over my wet skin?" She smiles when the line of his shoulders bunches. Her lips brush his ear. "Maybe loop your finger in the strings of my bikini until it comes undone? What would it feel like for us to be skin to skin? Did you wonder...how wet I might be?"

Vegeta stares in front of him. She's never spoken to him this way before. Never played so dirty. He listens silently with a clenched jaw and she knows she got him. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. "What you've neglected about this scenario is that you didn't know I was watching. Not very observant, are you?"

"If I were a spy, I'd be as good as it gets," she counters. They're still sitting close enough they press against the other. It feels so right. "And if you were a spy," her voice lowers, breath fanning out against his neck, "you'd wish to see me get out of that pool over and over and over."

He turns his head so their lips are nearly touching. He doesn't speak, which means she's not wrong.

She traces her lips against his. "I want to finish what we started."

"We have somewhere we need to be in fifteen minutes," he asserts. He has excellent self control and she hates it.

"I'll definitely need more than fifteen minutes with you," she admits.

"Work comes first." He reminds her, but she thinks he's mostly reminding himself. He's bargaining with himself, which means she has a chance to sway him.

"Vegeta," she says, and her voice has gone way huskier than she intended. Her hand slides over his thigh. She's always wanted to touch his thighs, and now she gets to. This is a new, dangerous past time. "Truth or dare."

Vegeta is excellent at games. He knows right now dare carries more risk. "Truth."

"Do you want to come back to the room with me?"

There's a ripe pause—and then he's tackling this with the same devil-may-care candor as he does everything else. "Yes."

Bulma's stomach drops, flops, and careens off a cliff, but Vegeta doesn't falter. "Truth or dare."

Bulma is more reckless. "Dare."

"I dare you to get up and walk with me to scope out another lead."

Everything comes right back to a halt. Vegeta is the ultimate obstructionist. She downs her glass and glares. Vegeta smirks and slides smoothly out of the booth. Bulma can't stand it. She can't stand his commanding grace and perfect posture and the way he always has control of the situation. She can't take any more of this push pull, this catch and release. She's about ready to shred her clothes into tatters.

She follows him, brain buzzing with all the ways she can take back control. She's thinking that things are dire enough that she's just going to start stripping when they get back to the room. What could he do? If he wanted to stop her, he'd have to get close enough to. She'd get to watch him squirm, and the thought makes her giddy.

Vegeta's voice is casual as they stroll down the wide hall. "Will you ever heed my advice? Will there ever be a day I tell you to stay put and you follow through?"

"I did excellent last night," she growls.

"You did," he agrees, watching her out of the corner of his eyes.

Bulma sighs. Vegeta has admitted she was right twice in less than ten minutes, but she's still not satisfied. She wants total domination.

"Look. I'm a woman who can't abide rules," she attempts to explain. Then huffs. "The more rules there are, the more you can bet that I won't follow a single one of them on principle. Even small ones," she warns him, walking close enough together that their arms brush, "make me act out. I'll self-sabotage a good thing if I feel like I'm being told what to do. Though it's probably why I make a good researcher. When faced with a supposition, my instinct is to immediately challenge that." She holds her hands out in front of her, as if to say, _what more could you ask for?_ "When one of my colleagues presents their work, it's his peer's job to find holes in his method. That's how good research generates solid answers. So, I can't just sit there and wait for you to get things done by yourself. I'm not a woman whose just going to let you take care of everything. You shouldn't expect me to, and you shouldn't settle for any less."

He gives her a look of surprise. She can tell he's contemplating her words, staring ahead. "When I was younger, I was..." Vegeta 's voice lowers. "...Scrappy. I wanted to prove myself. Every little slight to my pride was an offense of the deepest nature." He turns his head to regard her. "It took some falling down over and over to learn some self-control. To figure out what's worth devoting my energy to and what's not. And I'm only stronger for it."

"Are you telling me to get some self-control?" The crowd gets thicker as they pass the convention hall, and to avoid the people walking fiing in around them, Bulma clasps her hand around Vegeta's arm and presses herself against him to keep from being jostled.

"You wouldn't be Bulma with self-control," he says dryly, looking down at her plastered to his side.

"Well, believe me, I have self-control. There are lots of things I want to do but don't."

His knowing stare slides over her, plucking from her thoughts exactly what she wants to do and hoarding it for ransom later. A smoky arabesque of heat curls up from her center, but they just continue on down the hall like they're perfectly normal people who aren't trapped in a hell of sexual tension. It's probably the biggest lie they've entertained yet. The crowd thickens, more bodies pressing in on them from all sides. She's reminded of the exquisite weight of a man on top of her. The man at her side who she wishes would trap her beneath him, the gravely serious set of his jaw and the sharply perceptive gaze above her as he drags that serrated edge of her desire out and makes her beg him for more.

She takes deep breaths and counts to ten.

"How do you know Hercule?" Her cheek glues to his shoulder.

"Hercule is a performer and entrepreneur, although that's a nicer way to put it than he deserves. He capitalized on a wrestling and strongman televised federation. It's as glittery as it gets. He once tried to recruit me."

Bulma's eyes widen. Wrestling, in all of its fake, dramatic glory. "I can't imagine it."

"Oh, I considered it. Fame, combat, a crowd chanting my name." He smiles at the memory. "I might have done it, promptly before I blew the whole building sky high on a lark." He darts a glance back at her, and then at her hanging from his arm. She hasn't let go of his arm. "Negative attention is still attention. Are you sure a bottle of wine wasn't too much?"

"If the bottle of wine was winning, I'd be undressing you right now," Bulma points out.

Vegeta looks at her too long and she realizes what she's admitted. As her cheeks color, he smiles. "See?" He leans in close and she can't remember her own name. "You really do have self-control. I dispatched the guards just before I found you. Let's take a peek, shall we?"

And suddenly she realizes she's standing outside a rock band style bus, with Hercules face all over it. "Ugh," she says, sourly, and Vegeta agrees.

Vegeta opens the door and goes in first, then gestures when it's all clear. When she peeks inside, her eyes get big. Everything is done in classic architecture: columns, cornices. There are even statues. Cherubs and virgins.

"He's got taste, I'll give him that," she admits.

Vegeta scoffs in disagreement. "Buying class isn't the same thing as having it." Vegeta sweeps the trailer swiftly.

Bulma looks at him curiously, turning a snowglobe in her hand. "Well, I wouldn't have expected _you_ to be uppidy."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You just don't look like an elitist snob is all," she says, eyes roaming over the trailer. There are no houseplants, but she yanks the blinds up and looks under pillows just in case.

"What do I look like?" Vegeta is looking in drawers. "And put some effort into this, would you?"

"Like you spend all day in a gym, and all night, too."

"I do," he reminds her. "It's called training for my job."

"I didn't say you looked bad, Vegeta," she argues. "Quite the opposite," she grouses, "because you look really..." She chokes when she realizes what she's saying out loud.

His eyes glue her where she stands.

"I look really what?"

Ice cracks beneath her, threatening her solid ground. There's no way she's getting out of this one intact, and she knows it.

He gleams with naughtiness. There's no other word for that look he's giving her, like he's about to misbehave and the punishment will be _so_ worth it. "You like the way I look," he accuses, heading for her. His eyes darken sinfully. "You like it every time I'm shirtless." His voice rocks deep, dangerous. She is frozen with the merciless truth of it. "You liked watching me shower that night."

She isn't used to sexual overtures from him. It isn't fair when Vegeta weaponizes them! "I never said that!" She backs up. It's not easy because she wore heels and a tight, stretchy little number that seemed, at the time, like a great way to drive Vegeta crazy. "Focus! We're running out of time!"

The front door creaks open, light spilling in.

Bulma and Vegeta tense and stare at the doorway.

Two men walk up the stairs of the bus and look up straight into Bulma and Vegeta's surprised faces. It's apparent they shouldn't be there. The hostility from the men is immediate.

Bulma does what she does best.

She improvises.

"Hi," she chirps, and holds out her hand, marching forward. She gets straight to it. "We're with the Coreman Group. We were sent to evaluate the fresh air on the bus."

The silence is thick as she shakes their hands. Over her shoulder, she gives Vegeta a conspiratorial waggle of her eyebrows, a _"Help me, would you?"_

"I don't see any houseplants on Mr. Hercule's bus," she continues. "Does he not have a single plant to help improve air quality?" Bulma's voice rises as anxiety winds around her and squeezes. She tries her best to tamp it down and hopes she simply sounds concerned for Hercule's well-being.

When the men say nothing, she bends at the waist, pretending to search the shelves, leaving a lot of dangling flesh exposed above the neckline of her dress. Vegeta's eyes go big behind her as her dress hikes up her thighs. "I don't see a single one! Am I missing something, or is Hercule in danger of suffocating without the all-natural, organic air of a premium houseplant?"

Finally, one of the men breaks. "We take all of Hercule's needs very seriously." His tone is placating and dimples show in his cheeks as he smiles down at her cleavage.

Bulma smiles back.

...

Vegeta hasn't slowed down since they got off the bus.

"Vegeta, for goodness sake, my legs are shorter than yours." Bulma hurries to keep his pace. When he doesn't answer, she takes long, quick strides to level the scowl she's fixed so far on his back right into his annoying face. "Will you just yell at me already instead of stomping around all over the place?"

Vegeta finally jerks his head around. "You're always a hand span away from getting us both killed!"

"Killed?! I saved our hides! And don't be melodramatic. Those men were just suits and ties. They would have asked us to leave, max."

"You accuse me of not working with you, but you go and do something like that without my input. Why do you have to devolve to flirting with everybody!"

"Without your—Vegeta, we had no time to have a huddle about what to do!"

"Then you should have deferred to me, since I'm the one with the most experience."

"Deferred to you?" She grabs his wrist and yanks him to a stop, jabbing her finger in his direction. "You're just mad because I used my feminine wiles and it worked," she grinds out. Was he jealous that she flirted with other men, or jealous that her plan worked? She could never tell with him. "If you used your feminine wiles more often, maybe you'd get more done!"

"My feminine wiles?!" Vegeta looks like he's going to have an aneurysm. "I'm afraid to inform you, Ms. Briefs—"

"—Doctor—"

"—but I don't have feminine wiles. I am all male." He takes a step forward. "Brute strength." Another step. "Killing fury." Another. "Lethal grace."

Bulma snorts loudly.

"I'm a man who works out all day, all night. Isn't that what you said?" His voice gets deadly soft and he draws even closer. Bulma blinks and swallows. He sees it and smirks, his voice lowering until it's a croon. "You've seen what I can do. In the ring, I'm holding back everything I'm capable of. Should I take another shower, so you can be reminded of all the things I could do to a man...or woman?"

Her brain flops around like a fish out of water. It is not a good sign Vegeta knows what her weakness is: him. She can't breathe. What are words? "Knocking heads together is the only strategy you've got." She scrabbles for purchase. The conversation had gone steeply downhill, and Vegeta's reveling in it, because it throws her off her game every time. She scoffs while trying not to be intensely aware of the particular parts of her alert and showing interest. Every time he uses her attraction to him against her, she loses, damnet!

They decide to get back to what they were doing to at the same time, eyes pulling away,

ineffectually defusing the mood. A group of women smile at Vegeta with interest in their eyes as they walk past. Like with the women outside his locker room door, Vegeta remains completely disinterested. No one, man or woman, is worth his regard, his time, his energy. "Wish you were that pretty, Ms. Briefs?" He opens a door, letting himself in.

"Are you suggesting I'm not pretty?!"

Bulma collides into his back as he comes to an abrupt halt in front of her. She pushes herself away and moves to his side.

The result of their labors lays on the floor.

"Well, what do you know." Vegeta surveys it dispassionately. "That line those goons fed us wasn't bull after all."

"That's because I'm the pretty one of this duo," she reminds him. "Die mad about it."

On the ground lays a rotund, pink, shirtless man.

…

Vegeta seems physically repulsed to be hanging out with Hercule and his partner, Buu, and Bulma is just so fascinated she can't stop watching their back and forth with a foolish smile.

Buu, Hercule's business partner or life partner, she's not quite sure—has been sunning himself on the floor all day, cucumbers on his eyes. They are the height of a disconnected, weird Hollywood couple. Hercule is sitting on an actual throne. There are portraits of himself everywhere. He sits with his legs crossed at the knee, his plum smoking jacket gaping open, chest hair erupting from the front. He doesn't even ask her who she is. He's just so excited _Vegeta_ is here, in his permanent suite at the Devil's Heaven.

Vegeta is not appreciative of the fan service. It's clear that he views this as a necessary evil of their search and rescue operation. It's growing apparent to her, too, that Vegeta at some time completed some task so heroic that Hercule has never come down from the high of watching it happen before his very eyes.

Hercule talks too much. Every few minutes, he stands up and poses, punctuating some point in his story with a double biceps or a leaning into a flex that causes each chest muscle to bounce up and down. Bulma is eating it up. She's never been around such a character, and she's finding it increasingly harder not to laugh at Vegeta's annoyed discomfort. Karma is real.

Hercule has finally stopped regaling them with stories to pour himself a flute of champagne and offers Vegeta one, which Vegeta sits with a thunk onto a marble end table beside his gilded bergere chair. Bulma sprawls on the velvet chaise beside him, twirling a tassle on the tufted armrest around her fingers and listening raptly.

There's a knock on the door, and someone hurries in, sets a box on a granite-topped table, and shuffles back out the door with his head down. "Vegeta! Can you believe it! I won this at the auction last night!" Hercule strides over, takes the top of the box off with his thumbs and forefingers, and lifts a gold inlaid crystal chalice from the pillow inside. It is horribly tacky, like a movie prop, but Bulma can't bear to tell him, he is just _so excited._

"Did you hear about the auction?" Hercule's booming voice dips, and he glances at Vegeta before sitting the chalice delicately on the table. "Frieza showed up. In person. Couldn't believe it." He brushes his nose with the flat of his hand and steps back to survey his prize. "He purchased an ancient sword, rumored to be cursed...and a houseplant. How eclectic! Should I get a houseplant? Are houseplants trending?"

Vegeta's eyes fly open.

…

"If this Frieza bought it at the auction, that means he wasn't the one to send the goons to break in and take it in the first place. It wouldn't make sense, if he'd stolen it." Bulma taps her chin with her finger, following behind Vegeta, who heads from the elevator in silence. "So who sent the goons?"

Vegeta hasn't spoken to her since they left Hercule's suite. He hasn't spoken at all. He had stared in a daze while Hercule droned on and Bulma, side eyeing her next-door neighbor, grew increasingly alarmed. And then Buu woke up and started bickering with Hercule, so Bulma decided to pull them out, thanking Hercule for his generosity and pushing Vegeta out the door.

She'd thought maybe Vegeta was just drained by Hercule's antics, but he hadn't perked up since they'd left. His jaw is tight and eyebrows pinched. She thinks he's acting scared, and nothing scares Vegeta.

The sun is setting outside the wall of windows in their honeymoon suite, and Vegeta doesn't even fight her about putting the key in the door. He walks to the windows and looks down at the shore.

She sidles up behind him and places her hand on his back in support. "Vegeta," she says softly. "What's wrong?"

He glances back at her, and then double takes, like he just realized who was talking to him and what they were doing here. "Nothing," he says unconvincingly.

"Vegeta..." His name is a sigh. Her hands flare up his back to reach around his chest. And she squeezes, pressing her cheek hard into his back. He's warm and solid beneath her. "What's your plan?"

She has a second to comfort him, to enjoy him. Everything is finally behind them, and they're moving forward without his constant gas and stall. The Something between them is finally acknowledged, and carefully, they were feeding it. She was here for him. He could lean on her now.

And then everything changes. Vegeta turns out of her hold and heads for their bag, ripping her from the moment. "The plan is to go back home. This mission is over."

Bulma's eyebrows dip in confusion. "What? Why?"

"We can't get your project back." He shoves her bag into her chest and her arms wrap around it. His tone is ruthless and commanding. "Report it to your boss. To the authorities. This mission is over."

Slack jawed, she just stands there, watching as he packs his bag. "But Vegeta, we're so close." She can't keep the dumb surprise from her voice.

"This is over."

She grits her teeth at his tone, and then explodes into motion. "Why? Talk to me!" She inserts herself in his way as he moves to walk across the room.

"There's nothing to talk about."

Like a kettle boiling over, she makes a little whining noise that grows in pitch. "You make me _crazy!"_ She yells.

"You make _me_ crazy!" He yells back. "Do what I say. Pack up your bag. There's nothing else we can do!"

"You don't want to find it." Bulma's eyes go wide.

Vegeta doesn't say anything. A pinch of guilt, quickly overwhelmed by a scowl, but he keeps moving, rounding up their stuff.

"Why wouldn't you want to find it?"

A dangerous thought sweeps her. The thought is poison, paralyzing her. In its horror, it unfolds with perfect sensibility. It explains everything.

The possibility crashes over her like a wave. Her eyes round. "Unless you're working for him."

Vegeta doesn't say anything. He just grabs his own bag and heads for the door.

Vegeta doesn't deny it.

He doesn't deny it.

"We're leaving." He opens the door, duffle bag hanging from his grip, and jerks his head. _Move,_ he's telling her.

She stands still. Refuses to budge. Her face tightens. "Tell me why you're looking for my dragon ball."

Vegeta gets tired of holding the door open for her. He walks away, out of sight, without a backwards glance.

She is deeply, dreadfully hurt. As the sunset washes the road in purple and the silence in the car becomes thick enough to choke, the hurt ferments into sizzling anger. He doesn't spare her a glance or offer a word on their way home.

She doesn't even wait for him to kill the car once they pull in. Once they've stopped she's marching toward her house, clutching her bag. He's calling out to her, but she barrels for her front door. She doesn't care what he has to say anymore. She's over his high-handed "help" and his see-saw feelings. She's not chasing after him another second. If he's not going to help her, she has no one to rely on but herself.

She's gotta get this done on her own.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the roller coaster I've built you. It's a little long at +10,000 words, but it was kind of my obsession the last two weeks. I had so much fun writing this, but this has the least amount of Bulma/Vegeta interaction and is a little more pensive than other chapters, so be forewarned. Witness Bulma's downward spiral.

. . .

TEN DAYS

. . .

This isn't an equation to balance.

If she had just _, then _. Add more here, the result changes there. Propositional logic changes nothing. Bulma can't undo last night's catastrophe. She can't pick up all these pieces and put it back together the way it used to be. Without him, she's even more helpless than she was before. She can't compete with his desire for power when it's turned against her. For better or worse, she can't out-think the force of Vegeta's relentless motivation toward whatever climax he is headed for.

She is at work on Friday, but only her physical body is there, safety glasses perched on her nose, etch of the graphite pencil against blueprint paper. Mentally, she is time traveling. She's revisiting last night. Like a glutton for punishment, she replays it over and over.

She only has herself to blame. Her mind had been branding itself all over him prematurely. It'd been so good, what they'd had, she couldn't stop marveling over it. Like a convert, she had believed he was Good. Whatever had happened in his past had shaped him, but he'd grown. Last night she'd located herself in time and space again. She is waving hello from this new bleak reality.

She is the only one she can rely on.

He doesn't contact her at all on Friday.

She goes to work as if everything is okay in her totally normal world. She slips past her colleagues huddled at the coffee pot, where they're talking about the weather, their weekend plans. She closes her office door and walls herself off, tries to lose herself in her work. Classic Bulma move, only this time, it doesn't feel quite right, like a skin she's outgrown and shed, like forcing herself into too small a box. Her work used to be the only thing that fascinated her, but the boundaries of her mind have been thrown wide. How much had changed since she'd started running around with her next door neighbor, transformations so small to the naked eye, fractures impossible to perceive but which still ache. Now she's a different person with nothing to show for it—no comrade, no ball. It's surreal, acting as if nothing is shattering her inside. She drinks a cup of coffee like a normal person would do, this familiar ritual in a world that has gone completely bonkers. Harboring a big secret had made everyone feel farther away and brought her and Vegeta closer. Now it was just her and a hole he had left by his departure that she couldn't explain.

She drives home from work in a fog. The world is washed gray, rain coming down in a sheet. This is what betrayal feels like.

By evening, her brain is seeking to rationalize last night. She shouldn't be surprised by his behavior. Vegeta did, as his old colleagues said, what was best for Vegeta. Period. He'd helped her find her project because he was opportunistic and self-serving. Period. He didn't care more about her than he did power and pride, and she was surprised! Exclamation mark! She had known the man darkening her door step was trouble, but Bulma lived for trouble. She'd reaped what she'd sowed.

No one is walking up the stairs at 5:15 after work except her. No one knocks on her door through the evening. His house remains dark. She pulls away from her bathroom window, arms crossed in the dark, protectively turning away from _that_ feeling again, like she'd been all day. Dimly she remembers he had a fight tonight. She was never really invited.

In bed, she tosses restlessly until the world blackens and her brain fuzzes around the corners, revealing a tunnel leading nowhere but to empty, gray, dreamless space, and fitfully, she sleeps.

. . . 

A slant of light from her window lays feather light over her face. Only a few hours had passed, according to a glance at the clock, but it'd been enough time for her mind to integrate new program files, defrag, dump minutiae. Her subconscious had determined data or detritus, dispatching it, allowing her to see fresh.

"Don't fall on your sword or anything," she whispers out the window when he doesn't swing by in the morning to explain. He won't humble himself for her, reroute his plans for her.

Stupid that she'd expect him to. So what, they'd developed a nice shorthand, didn't have to say anything to know what the other was feeling. The heated looks, the harmonious teamwork. So what. She'd never met anyone like Vegeta. And now someone had gutted their secret language. Vegeta had.

Bulma doesn't sense it, but she has rounded a corner.

An angry woman is rattling the bars of the cage inside her.

. . . 

NINE DAYS

. . . 

Before the faint, autumn sun has even strengthened in the overcast morning sky, she hovers over her white board downstairs. The marker squeaks on the dry erase board. She empties her head of everything she'd learned—each player in the city, their strengths and weakness, and how they're connected, like some kind of macabre family tree. Steeling her jaw, she writes Vegeta's name down on the left. She writes Frieza's name on the far right.

She has only nine days left. Nine days to get this right. This time, she gets to be the one in control, the one breaking the cycle.

In the corner, on the stack of Physicists Weekly and haphazardly arranged sheet metal and wire, her phone rings. Yamcha, for their monthly brunch, which Bulma always dutifully answers and attends.

Bulma ignores it.

. . .

The little sedan putts at the stoplight, two cars behind the city bus. Bulma's eyes don't leave it as it lumbers down the far right lane, skimming the curb as it picks people up and deposits them through the center of the city. The heat doesn't work in this car, but she's pulled a beanie over her head, tugged gloves on under a baggy, unisex coat. The cold isn't worth her attention. There is only the bus, and the man who is going to get off of it at any second.

It's at 9th Street that she spots him, his tell-tale hair, duffle in hand. He's thrown a leather jacket over his black hoodie. Fitted athletic pants molded to muscled legs, black and white sneakers glide over concrete. He gives a long look up and down the sidewalk when he steps off, brushes the flat of his hand under his nose from the cold, and then heads down Baltimore. Bulma throws the car into park on the side of the street, pissing the car off behind her, and unbuckles her seat belt.

She follows him down Baltimore, past Elm, walking close enough to the storefronts that she can dodge inside if necessary. Anxiously, she dips the bottom half of her face deeper into the neck of her coat and pretends its against the cold. But Vegeta never looks back, always plowing forward.

When he turns into an old brick building, door swinging wide behind him, she stalls. She can't just walk in the front door, and there's probably bad guys in the back, too.

The fire escape seems to appear out of nowhere, beckoning.

At the top of the second floor landing is an old, metal door, cracked open. There's an ashtray on a rusty side table and a plastic patio chair. Someone's smoke spot. The door pushes open, silent on its old hinges. But even as cloudy as it is, light spills into the dark hallway, giving her away. She freezes.

No one is yelling or shooting at her, so she peeks in. Like a hand pushing at her back, a gust of wintry air causes her to stumble inside. It's as if everything is telling her she must do this. All the signs are here.

Her sneakers barely sound in the hall, but she tiptoes to be safe. It's very dim, musty with age. As she advances farther into the building, she can hear voices, and she cautiously slows.

But it isn't Vegeta's voice that gives them away. It's Tien's.

"I wouldn't have to tell you that if you'd just get over it."

Bulma nearly dives into the nearest closet, and cracks the door. She is indirectly across from the room that Tien's voice sounds from. She's pretty sure a mop bucket is poking her butt, and it smells like dirty mop water and chemicals, but she wedges herself further into the corner stubbornly and listens.

"I did what I was asked to."

Vegeta's voice does the weirdest thing to her. It's warm and gold as sunlight on her skin. It's a hand between her legs. It's a hair trigger: she can imagine herself locking her hands around his neck and shaking until his eyes become x's.

"No one asked you to do that." Tien is like the class know-it-all, disaffected and snotty until offended when challenged by another student. "You apply the rules only when you benefit."

"I'm not perfect," Vegeta snarls, already pissed.

Tien chokes on laughter. "Wow. You really have changed. Never thought I'd see the day."

Steps grow louder from the hallway. Bulma presses herself so hard into the inside closet wall she pretends she's melted into it. Whoever it is passes, and then says to the other men, "Are you getting soft on us?"

Piccolo.

"How much do we really have to lose?" Vegeta's tone makes it clear he thinks nothing.

"You're out of your mind," Tien complains. "You'll derail this whole operation. He'll never forgive you."

"The fight was a disaster last night," inserts Piccolo. "You idiot!"

She hears a chair shriek in protest, as if someone has leapt from his chair. Vegeta's snarl is dangerous. "Don't lecture me about the fight when you've been baiting me to do exactly that this whole time!"

"You handled the whole affair like shit!"

There's no protest from Vegeta.

"So you just decided to opt out of your contract?" Piccolo fishes. "On a whim?"

"I'm done pretending."

Something smacks the table. She's feeling crunched and achy, but she will do this all day if she has to if it means uncovering Vegeta's secrets. All year, even.

"There." Papers rifle, then a thud hits the table. "Roshi says he's got exactly what you asked for. He wants you to pick it up at 4." Piccolo's voice hardens. "He's not the only one going out of his way for you."

Vegeta makes a dismissive noise.

A chair scrapes, and Tien's voice pitches low, teasing. "Speaking of going out of their way for you, what's Dr. Briefs doing today, Vegeta?"

At her name, her breath stills in her lungs.

Dead silence fills the space between them all. She strains to hear, hair standing on end.

There's finally a scoff from Tien. "Exactly what I thought. You estrange everyone you meet."

"Curious that she wasn't at the fight last night," Piccolo observes. "Probably for the best. How the hell would you have explained it?"

"The only reason you aren't both dead," Vegeta drawls dangerously, "is because I need you."

"Cute. And the only reason you aren't dead is because of Goku and Kaioshin. Remember that."

"What can I do?" Vegeta erupts. "You can't have it both ways. You can't expect me to fall in line even as you take away all my rights. I'm not your beast on a leash. I'm not your penitent soldier! And I'm not your fucking _lackey!"_

She's never heard Vegeta yell like this before. Her brows knit together in alarm.

"Way down deep, you still think you're King of South City," Piccolo's smooth voice cuts. "You still expect to be worshiped. But here," he drawls, "you're a king no longer. Here, you have to play our game."

"Yeah? Well fuck your game." A chair scrapes backward, like Vegeta stands to leave. "And fuck this side."

"You can't be a lone wolf, Vegeta. You'll spin your wheels."

A chuckle that scares her. "Who said I don't have other options?"

She can hear his commanding tread down the hall, down a set of stairs and away from her, until silence envelops her, thick as a blanket.

"I think we have to consider," Piccolo says when the silence starts ringing in her ears, "a reality that Vegeta's turned."

. . .

Radio blaring, she leads the car to the Porno Palace.

It's early enough that, if she times this right, she can get what she wants while avoiding Vegeta.

The g-string cowboy is there at the counter, and on cue he gives her an appreciative look as she walks in. "Hey, city girl. Ever been interested in a country boy?"

Bulma is in no mood for men today. She does not have the patience to let this guy down gently. Thankfully, Roshi does it for her.

"I wouldn't, if I were you." He moves out from behind the curtain and regards them quietly. "This lady here has a man who's a little...possessive."

"That doesn't scare me off so easily," the cowboy says, winking. "It just adds an element of spice to the dish."

"Yeah? Explain that to Vegeta."

The cowboy's face goes stiff. "Nevermind," he says, and shakes his head as if he disagrees fundamentally with her choice, going back to what he was doing as if she was never there.

She turns to regard herself in the mirrors of Roshi's sunglasses.

"How are you, dear? I see you're alone. Come to take me up on my offer of a job?"

Her voice is perfectly rehearsed. "Vegeta sent me to pick it up. Something came up, so we're meeting up later."

Roshi regards her thoughtfully for a second, then gestures toward the doorway. "Want to come to my office?" His querulous voice is beckoning, soft.

She follows behind him, eyebrows coming down hard. If he suspects what she's up to and intends to lecture her, she won't have it. But she needs what he has. She fortifies herself for a fight.

In the little office—not as postmodern as Piccolo's, nor as barrels-and-crates as Tien's—Roshi shuts the door behind them. There's a girlie calendar on the wall, and a retro clock with a naked woman riding a rocket ship, her red lips pursed in an unmistakable "O" of pleasure. But there are picture frames, too, and a crocheted blanket thrown over a couch. Sunning on the window sill is a palm in a ceramic pot. A turtle in a terrarium pushes himself slowly to a bowl of lettuce under a heat lamp.

"I heard about Vegeta's fight last night," Roshi begins. He takes a seat behind the desk, and props up his sunglasses on his head to rub his eyes. Instead of the admonishing she expected, Roshi's eyes are ringed with concern. "Vegeta's full of piss and vinegar, we all know. He's always been rash. You can't just stop years of reinforced behavior, of thinking you're unstoppable." He takes his sunglasses off his bald head and wipes them with a cloth. His ankle rests on his knobby knee. "But he's a better man now that he found you."

Bulma can't help but scoff in surprise. "He's the same selfish jerk he was when I first met him," she argues.

"Why? Because he can't tell you everything?"

Bulma blinks.

What does Roshi know?

"Yeah, he may not be able to tell you everything. But I recognize a change when I see one. That man took a big risk last night." He puts his glasses back on, strokes his beard. "I don't know if he'll recover," he finishes quietly.

Just what the hell had happened last night? "He's a big boy," Bulma says instead, neutrally.

"Yeah. But he's burned a lot of bridges," laments the old man. "Whatever his reason, though, he's decided to trust in you."

Roshi seems to be genuinely concerned about Vegeta's welfare. Or there's just a chance, she reasons cynically, that he's only worried about the smoking crater Vegeta might leave behind when he finally turns. She could sympathize.

"What exactly are you trying to say?" She is nothing to Vegeta. He made that clear when he jumped ship.

Roshi tosses the manila envelope down on his desk.

She picks it off the table carefully, pops the opening, and looks in.

"I'm just glad he has you," Roshi finishes. "He had a troubled coming of age. Then that man filled his head full of lies. I doubt he's ever had anyone to confide in, that trusts him and that he can trust. He probably doesn't even know where to start." Roshi crooks his fingers under his chin, contemplating. "This has been an uneasy alliance. I'm glad he has you to ground him."

He apologizes and leaves her there in his office when a dancer cracks the door open and pulls him away with a question.

Bulma stares unseeing at the wall. No one is making any sense. She had no idea what the hell everyone is talking about. She's a smart woman, but all these half-formed clues, and she had nothing of substance to attach them to. _Something_ was happening at an accelerated pace, and she couldn't keep all the pieces together with the speed of it.

It doesn't stand out to her at first. She sees it, parting from behind a curtain of mental fog, obscured by strain and distraction. There it is, nonetheless: a picture frame, with two familiar faces. Goku and ChiChi smile at the camera with their hands on a child's shoulders, who smiles shyly, front and center.

In the picture, the child holds a glowing orange ball with four stars on it.

. . .

Bulma drives around the city to quiet the yelling in her head. It's not working.

She eventually parks her dad's old, compact car, feeds the meter, and walks down the street. The brisk air claws through the fog of anxiety, but it's not sobering her. At a ground eating pace, she is seething.

She had dumped the contents of Roshi's envelope out into her lap before she'd left the parking lot. It had been a single picture of a painting, an old, Eastern mural on sun-bleached brick. A green dragon wound above wispy cumulus, his lower body sheltering several familiar golden balls. On the back, someone had written, "Seven."

There was more than just a single dragon ball. There were _seven_. Seven extremely difficult balls to locate, not just one.

Just how much had been kept from her? Everything? What did she know about her neighbor next door? "Nothing!" She curses, startling the guy walking past her as she slams her coffee cup into the trash.

Sadness hits her in a wave, and she has to sit down under its weight. How did Vegeta wedge himself under her skin so deep? Why had she let him, the possibility of him, so close?

The woolly autumn clouds dampen any chance of a spectacular sunset tonight. Night draws over the city uneventfully. On a cold park bench, the evening crowd and traffic pick up, and Bulma watches it dully. Saturday night in the city, the rowdiness growing with the approaching darkness. Her mission had been slamming up against her skull all night, beating its war drums furiously in her chest, and she takes a minute to just breathe.

Why couldn't things have just been easy? Why had everything gone to hell once she'd brought this ball home? The dragon balls were cursed; her life was evidence of that! Everything was getting worse and worse, and the crummiest part about it was that she'd find herself pining for Vegeta's company and support. She was so much stupider than she'd ever given herself credit for.

Feeling like she's hitting bottom, she gazes out on the street numbly. Life goes on, despite her problems. She sighs. The five stages of grief were being rolled like a dice, she was getting one every few minutes.

Her mind finally rests on a thought.

She should call Yamcha back. Let him know she's ok. He is one of the few constants in her life, and she feels poignantly at this moment that she shouldn't take that for granted. She picks herself up off the bench and moves toward the phone booth across the street.

The red lights from the tiny shop beside it wash the inside of the booth in cherry red. Bulma glances up at it as she draws a quarter from her pocket for the pay phone.

FORTUNE TELLING, it blazes.

. . .

The little old woman jerks the "In Session" sign down that indicates she is working and snaps the curtain closed to give them privacy. Shuffling across the room with a hunched back, she wears a loose, purple shirt with little silver beads and bangles sewn in, and her hair sticks out from behind her ears, dry as straw and reddish-purple from a boxed dye job. She is not a sweet little old lady: her jowls hang like a bulldogs and her lips have thinned and retreated into her toothless mouth. Bulma keeps distance between them as the crone leads them to a round table. Musky incense burns from a corner beside a real crystal ball and a couple of stacked tomes. There are paintings of ancient lore: dryads gathering water in streams under the watchful gazes of gods, dragons snarling over clouds, and a scroll that's unrolled to the floor. Crystals and gems glint on bookshelves, along with dried flowers, acorns, and what looks like chicken bones. The name the crone gave is Baba, and Bulma is reminded of Baba Yaga, with her wandering house on chicken legs and her taste for children.

The old woman takes a slow and pained seat onto a red cushion on the floor round the table, and gestures for Bulma to do the same.

"Bone telling, tea leaf and water scrying, palm reading, runes and cartomancy. I do it all. What brings you in to hear an old woman's doddering premonitions?"

Bulma is taken aback by the woman's frankness. She'd thought she'd get a pushy salesperson trying to hawk the mystical. Instead, the woman doesn't even seem happy to have a customer.

After a speechless moment, Bulma finally answers. "I'm in a very weird place in my life right now." She really doesn't know what to say. How to explain this uncertainty gonging through her? How to explain that the man she was falling for is working for the enemy? That a magical ball has been stolen from her, and now the whole city underground is looking for it?

"You are having relationship problems?" The old woman clucks her tongue.

Bulma colors. "No!" At the woman's hard stare, she backpedals. "Yes. But there's more to it than that," she protests.

The old woman puts an electric kettle on and lights a candle which sits in a copper dish between them. Bulma watches in fascination. As if signaling they are starting, Baba plucks a deck of cards from the table. "We will draw a minor and a major arcana for the past, present, and future. And one card for you. We will read all about your little relationship issues." Baba's voice dips in annoyance.

Bulma is struck with the weirdest disorientation. She doesn't know why she's here. Everything she's doing lately seems led by some unseen hand. She is not in control, not the one at the wheel. Something is driving her forward without any explanation.

Baba, with much fussing, eventually selects and places seven cards down. Three are close together, in pairs, and the last rests off to the side. Bulma's card, she suspects. She stares at it mistrustfully as Baba pours tea in two ceramic mugs.

Then Baba turns the first card over. "Two of cups," she reads. "Cups: the suit of relationships and connections."

Bulma frowns down at the card. She can't believe she's agreed to this. "What does that mean?"

"This is the beginning." Baba's finger taps the card face, where the silhouette of a man and a woman exchange a cup. Two winged snakes twist upwards from the cups. A lion's head floats at the top. It makes no sense to Bulma. Were they exchanging cups with snakes in it? Bad deal.

"A man and a woman meet. Between them, the staff of Hermes, with its twining snakes, the symbol of trade and communication. You recently met a man whom you had to negotiate a deal with."

Bulma blinks. "This could apply to anyone," she finally says. "Could have been the guy at the grocery store who I gave my change to."

"The lions head symbolizes sexual attraction." The old woman looks at her flatly from under heavy eyelids. "There's a lot of passion between you."

A nervous laugh escapes Bulma.

"You have recently began a relationship with someone, one that is mutually beneficial. A lover, or a business partner. You both share a vision, a pursuit, of business or of marriage." Bulma chokes on her tea, but Baba ignores her. "It's a partnership that requires constant respect and transparency to remain intact." She flips the card beside it without giving Bulma time to digest any of this.

Bulma looks at it like it has three heads.

"The Fool."

"Aw, man." Bulma mutters. "Is that me?"

"The Fool is innocence," Baba explains impatiently. "The Fool has began a journey, excited for new adventure. The mountains loom behind him"—she taps the picture on the card, where a wall of purple mountains shadow the Fool's path just down the road—"and the future challenges, but the Fool trusts where the universe is taking him. You have had an open mind, for personal growth and adventure. There is great potential, once the Fool starts his journey."

If the universe was sentient enough to set her up on this wild dragon ball chasing spree, it was probably laughing at her, too. Great potential, sure, but with very poor odds. Bulma presses her lips together, staring cynically at the cards.

The crone flips the third of the seven cards over. "The present, now. The middle of your journey, the both of you. Six of Swords."

Six. Her dragonball had had six stars. Dr. Briefs casts the thought away as anecdotal. Dr. Briefs needs less hoodoo and more evidence. Dr. Briefs' calm composure is hanging from a thread.

"Swords represent conflict, intellect, courage and change. You are in the middle of a great event that requires the best of what your mind and heart has to offer. The six of swords is about transition."

Bulma peers down hard at the card. It's more melancholy than the other two. A figure hunches over in a boat as someone ferries them across glassy, still waters. It's a portrait of grief and passage. Six swords float over the figure's shoulder, and even Bulma can feel the mental weight of their reckoning.

It was like the deck had aimed its satellite imaging right at her and Vegeta and zoomed in by a thousand. The card face seems hopeless. Were their hearts and minds just not constituted of the right stuff? Had the journey been doomed to fail?

Baba flips over the other card in this pair. "Ahh." Seriousness threads her voice, and Baba stares somberly down at this card, causing Bulma's spine to straighten. The reading has taken a turn. Clearly this isn't what Baba had expected.

Bulma's eyes widen when she sees why. _'The Hanged Man,'_ it reads at the bottom of the card.

The man hangs upside down by a rope around his ankle, a yellow circle behind his head like a halo. It all seems very medieval to Bulma, but still, here she is, hanging on to every word Baba says.

"Now, don't be alarmed. The Hanged Man is learning, not death. Like the Fool, he started out on a journey, but he has discovered something which will bring enlightenment, if he lets it. I have a responsibility when I draw the Hanged Man during a reading to encourage my client—or her boyfriend," she deadpans, piercing Bulma with a stare—"to surrender to the lesson. But surrender doesn't come for free." Baba's voice lectures in the hush between the scattered amethysts and the overgrown spider plants. "The Hanged Man must give up control to learn something vital. It may even call for martyrdom, but that's the price of the knowledge following through to its logical conclusion. And some might say, all knowledge is worth having."

Bulma watches the card as if it might leap up at any second and start marching toward her with a butchers knife. She feels like she's fallen down a rabbit hole. She can't imagine Vegeta martyring himself for anyone. He'd rather just hang there stubbornly.

"However," Baba's voice turns harsh. "The Hanged Man doesn't just always accept his lesson. He is depicted by hanging by a rope from his ankles because he is a traitor, unable to see the world how it is, only how he wants it to be."

Bulma meets Baba's gaze soberly.

"And if he misses his opportunity for self-sacrifice and learning, he loses everything, while thinking foolishly that he's maintained everything. It is the inability to change, the ego, which is death."

Bulma's heart is pounding. She places her hand over it, to keep it in.

"Now. The last pair. The possible future." Baba flips the card. "Nine of wands." The silhouette of a person clutches a wand, while several other wands hover over them threateningly. She couldn't have just had a more low-key future? There were wands attacking her now? Bulma sighs.

"They are weary, this person. They have fought many battles and must battle one more time. This is the final test. They must be resilient and strong, and have what it takes to overcome this final difficulty. They must keep pushing. The suit of wands is about passion, strength, boldness and freedom. They must not forget, this is what they're made of."

She flips the sixth card over. Bulma catches her breath.

On the card, a woman jumps, frightened, from the top of a tower. Behind it, lightning clashes. The tower itself has a gash in it, like at any moment, it might topple. Baba's voice is grim and solemn. "The Tower. The tower is change. But not just any change—upheaval. This is change birthed by destruction. It is an event that shakes you to your core." Baba locks her rheumy eyes with Bulma's. "There is no escaping it. But here," she points to the lightning, "even as the foundations of life come crashing down, here there are bolts of clarity, the Truth. You will be faced by whats real and what's not, and realize your beliefs were built on false misunderstandings. But the Tower is here to help. This event will set things aright, and you will grow stronger and wiser from it, but only if you dare."

Bulma isn't breathing. She grips her knee and stares down at the card.

Why had she thought this was a good idea again?

"The last card."

Bulma remembers the last card, and blinks down at it.

"Your card." Baba flips it. "Reverse Hierophant."

Bulma frowns down at it. A priest sits on a throne, casting his hand in a blessing. It isn't a very pretty card. "But I'm not religious."

"This isn't about religion. This is about learning," Baba clicks her tongue, and spreads all seven cards out in front of Bulma. "The Hierophant means you are following convention, letting traditions and other people's beliefs move you. You, however, have turned that upside down and on its head. Reversed it." Her wrinkled hand smacks the card. "You have become your own teacher, letting intuition guide you." The old woman's voice rises. "Keep rebelling against what others are trying to tell you is true. Changes need to be made, tradition needs to be bucked. This may lead to conflict, trouble with authority figures and those whose strength you subvert. But on this road, you _must_ rebel, to reclaim your personal power."

Bulma's eyes gleam in the glow of the candle light as she gazes on her destiny.

. . .

She drives straight to the Moonlight.

She'd steeled herself for being under-dressed, but when she edges through the crowd out front and hears the music thumping every time the door opens, it's apparent.

It's Eighties Night at the Moonlight.

 _"Should I stay or should I go now?"_ The lead singer belts, drums booming through the building as she presses through the crush of bodies. _"If I stay there will be trouble, and if I go it will be double."_ She gawks at the lights, at the crowd, at the front room as it opens onto the cavernous dance floor. There is teased hair and leg warmers, crosses dangling from earrings and shoulder pads, clashing neon and thick eyebrows! thick rouge! thick eye shadow!

She wedges herself through the crowd until finally she breaks loose, only to have to elbow her way to the front of the bar. When the bartender finally makes his way to her, she steels herself. "I want to talk to Goku."

The bartender wipes a glass. "Who's asking?"

She falters. Does Goku even know who she is? What leverage might she have against Goku, and his wife, the Grand Mistress, on their own turf? What the _hell_ was she thinking, coming here? She's been ready to take Goku apart piece by piece. Now she had no idea how she was going to accomplish it.

She could walk away right now. She could go home, slip into her safe and cozy bed, and leave this madness all behind. Monday, she could tell the Defense Department that she had lost the dragon ball and just be done with this hunt and this anxiety...and with Vegeta. She could be done with it altogether.

And regret it every day. Her arched eyebrows snap together. "Tell him there's a Defense Department scientist here to see him." She tugs the zipper down on her coat, suddenly hot, and it yawns open. She is out of place here tonight, but she feels like the curtains have parted to reveal who she truly is: an unstoppable force.

Goku comes drifting up from a set of stairs behind the bar. His eyes are guarded and confused by the request, until they land on her.

He smiles, and it's dazzling. Gosh, how can a man's smile be so warm and inviting? It's so different from the _other_ man she's used to contending with that she's a bit disoriented. "Bulma, isn't it?" He reaches out to shake her hand. "Or Doctor? I'm sorry."

This kind of support and optimism a woman could get used to! An ache lances through her. Goku and ChiChi are a power couple, and what were she and Vegeta? A fucking mess.

"You can call me Bulma." A smile slants helplessly on her face, the first time in awhile. "Is there somewhere we could speak in private?"

Goku gives her an shrewd look that is such a contradiction to the friendliness he'd shown just a second ago that it rattles her. She is reminded that this man is Vegeta's friend for good reason. All of Vegeta's acquaintances are dangerous, and this man was the closest one to Vegeta of them all.

And then he nods his head to the staircase. He leads her down.

. . .

Bulma'd come in hot, ready to shake Goku down. Why did he have a dragon ball? What did he have to do with this vast conspiracy to take hers? But now the viper that'd been snapping inside her is hypnotized into calm. She doesn't want to misbehave in front of someone who just seems so _nice_. She'd tried to come in with guns blazing, and instead, she proves to be a total softy. They sit on the corner of his boxing ring with a beer in their hands, her legs dangling from the ring.

Here is a man who knows so much about Vegeta. She has to pick his brain first. Like they always say, chit chat before sedition. "Vegeta has mentioned you two have a colorful history."

Weirdly, it's not awkward, sitting next to this big fighter in this empty gym. Where Goku lacks polish, he could make friends out of enemies in spades. He's so relaxed, so accepting. He treats her like an old friend. It's no wonder even Vegeta tolerates him.

"Vegeta and ChiChi go way back. Before he even knew me. You've probably heard the story."

"No, I haven't." She tries not to sound too desperate, about the man she's both head over heels for and is trying to outmaneuver.

"Well, ChiChi was the daughter of the Ox King. You might have heard of him?"

Bulma draws on her glass. "The famous mobster?" She licks froth off her upper lip.

"That's him. Years ago, he was a big crime boss on the east side, in the mountains. Vegeta's family and the Ox family were partners, so ChiChi and Vegeta knew each other as kids. It wasn't until ChiChi's father's compound was torched that he left that life behind. They barely made it out alive, so he decided to start a new life with his young daughter. They settled in South City, under Vegeta's family's protection."

So. Vegeta's family had been a crime family. "Vegeta said he'd been hired to kill you," she says. She can't keep the humor out of her voice. Only in this crazy new world where magic balls existed were things like that funny.

Goku laughs. "Yeah. It didn't go as planned, obviously. I was the first one who'd ever beat him. And then he kept me around just so he could keep fighting me."

She can't help the smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. She is imagining a dozen wacky scenarios where Vegeta follows Goku around demanding they fight. And what a happy ending: the two end up friends. She snickers. "He said he used to be scrappy."

"He was insufferable! He was always trying to fight me! ChiChi said he was snotty and hotheaded before Frieza. He'd been groomed to take over his family's fortune. Saiyan heir and all. But any kid would turn wild living on the streets like Vegeta had to." Goku's voice hardens. "And then Frieza got him, and well... He had to be cruel and cold-hearted just to survive."

Bulma's breath freezes in her throat. Frieza. Here it was. A morsel of information, right here in front of her, begging to be taken. All her questions could be opened by one key: by the man who had a dragon ball, too. She was like an adventurer, poised with her hands hovering over the golden relic just inches from her grasp. When she lifted it, would she walk away with treasure, or would she activate the booby trap? Should she ask the question she wanted to ask?—why is Vegeta scared of Frieza? Or the question she should ask—how did she get into Frieza's lair?

Bulma stares at her sneakers, her hands clasped around her beer. All these sob stories about Vegeta's past broke her heart. A crazy part of her asks, what would it be like if someone stuck around, when someone cared? What if it was her?

What, just so she could be rejected again? The doors in Bulma's heart slam shut. All the pain Vegeta had suffered didn't justify the way he'd kept her in the dark and used her to advance his own interests. "I'm sick of his selfishness, Goku," she grits. "He wants the advantage at all times, so he's never honest with me. He knows more about my project than he's letting on. And you know why?" She looks up from under a heavy scowl. "I think Vegeta is working for Frieza."

Goku clearly does not expect to hear that. A look passes over his face that spells disbelief...and then denial. He's surprised by her words, for sure, he's questioning why she might be led to believe that. But he doesn't crack. He doesn't agree. "You've been spending a lot of time with him lately," Goku concedes. His tone is a study in professionalism. She recognizes that he's humoring her and hates it immediately. "What makes you think that?"

"We finally found out that Frieza has my project, and he won't even pursue it!" She hops off the ledge of the ring and begins pacing. "He just shut the whole thing down! He wouldn't even talk to me about it, he just threw my bags at me and left."

Goku's frown becomes severe. His whole demeanor changes, posture straightening, muscles bunching, like he's being put together before her. Every cell in her body blares in alarm, reminded that he's a fighter, too. "Frieza has it?"

"Yes! And all our work, everything that led us here..." She tries not to choke up and gets angry with herself for being so emotional, when he never was. "He pulled out of our mission. I asked him if it was because he was working for Frieza. He didn't deny it, Goku. And he hasn't talked to me since." And here they came. The stupid tears. She points angrily at the floor. "He knows so much more than he lets on. And I'm tired of it!"

Goku turns a thoughtful gaze on her. "Vegeta hasn't been acting himself lately, I agree. Erratically, the other guys say. They don't trust him, he doesn't trust them. He was the bad guy, after all, until a few years ago." His gaze on her sharpens, and he carefully selects his words. "I don't always agree with Vegeta's decisions. He's still sometimes a wild card. He can still be reactive and proud. But I trust his nature. I trust the man he is underneath all of his mistakes. I've seen him at his worst, and I know what he actually wants and what was just forced upon him. And if it's a decision that affects you, like whether pursuing Frieza with you is the right call, then I'm certain he's made the right one."

All Bulma hears is that Goku isn't going to help her. Bulma is feeling her world fall to pieces. "So I should just give up?" Her voice is tight enough to break. "This is my life's work." Even she hears that there's more to it than that. She turns her blushing face away, teeth clenched. "So we should just let Frieza have it? Have you ever considered Vegeta might be gathering them for Frieza? Or," she throws out, "or for himself?"

"Vegeta would never go back to Frieza," Goku says with absolute certainty.

"I think you're underestimating his allegiance to any of us," she snaps, voice low and throaty. "And I don't pretend to think _you've_ got my best interests in mind. What do you know about the dragon balls, Goku?"

Goku's face is carefully neutral. "I'm happy to assist you in any way that I _can_ ," he tells her slowly. He's too nice. Vegeta would be shutting the door on her already, telling her he didn't have to tell her anything. Goku thinks he can talk her down. He's got a lot to learn about her. She can't be 'handled.'

"If it doesn't involve you telling me the truth, then I don't want your help."

"Vegeta's told us a lot about you." At Bulma's deadly eyes slit in his direction, he holds up his hands. "About how generous you are. How driven."

How much she'd stupidly given up for no reason at all, how much she'd helped him with his nefarious plan, how he discarded her when he was done using her.

"He's mentioned how smart you are, how you could be intensely focused. He admires that about you, you know."

It's a criticism cloaked as a complement. It could have been something Vegeta'd said to her about a suspect they were staking out. Now she could be the old acquaintance he informed someone else of. _"Intensely focused, bossy, stubborn, obsessive. Gullible,"_   he'd say, to someone else. Her pacing picks up, and her mouth pulls into a silent snarl.

Then she stops. "Vegeta talks about me to you?" Her voice is strangled with suspicion.

"And Vegeta doesn't care enough to talk about anyone! So promise me you'll follow Vegeta's lead on this. You guys may butt heads...but you have to meet him halfway. It's critical that we're all on the same page with this issue."

"Yeah? Tell him that," she snaps, swinging her backpack over her shoulder and heading for the door without promising anything.

. . .

Bulma is fuming by the time she reaches the top of the stairs. She knows just as little as she did before, and she's basically been cut off at the knees. Goku won't help her. He's on Vegeta's side! No one cares about her feelings. No one cares that she'll be blacklisted from doing her life's work, like that scuzzy old scientist, Gero. No one has even tried to explain the facts to her, instead they'd cloaked everything in secrecy like she's too stupid to understand. No one cares that they hurt her by brushing her off. No one cares that they made her feel insignificant and unwanted by shutting her down in the hotel room.

She is just as alone and powerless as she was before. It's truly up to her now. She has no friends in this, and no allies.

The Moonlight had become even more packed and lively in the half hour she'd spent downstairs, and she has to squeeze through the crowd at the bar and zigzag across the dance floor, working her way to the exit. _"Nothing lasts forever,"_ Tears for Fears croons over the speakers. _"Everybody wants to rule the world."_ She presses through, hitting an empty spot as she makes her way across, shrugging to readjust her backpack on her shoulder.

She is so deep in thought it takes her a moment to realize she'd walked right past Vegeta, who had frozen a few paces away, like he'd just done the same thing. Head canted in her direction, his eyes bore into her. _Don't move,_ they say.

Her own eyes narrow, and fixing him with a stare of her own, she continues walking forward, breaking his gaze with a toss of her hair.

He turns around and threads his way through, after her. She picks up the pace, her heart rate picking up, too.

Maybe she'd been wrong about him this whole time—about thinking he was a good man who cared about her—and her instincts were shit and she was a woman with shitty taste in men. Maybe he'd been playing her since the start. Maybe he'd agreed to help so that he could keep her under his thumb, directing her where he wanted her to go, controlling her momentum, making sure she never found all the answers...because he'd wanted to make sure Frieza got what he wanted. He'd been trying to keep her right where he wanted her. Contained. Neutralized.

Maybe he won't stop until she is.

Her heart pounds. She glances over her shoulder. Despite the crowd, he is closing the distance behind her. Purple and pink rays of light from overhead swirl over them, fanning against the walls as the singer laments he's the owner of a lonely heart.

She is close enough to see the large doorway at the front. Freedom! Her escape!—when she is tugged backward. Feet skipping across the floor, she is practically picked up by her coat collar and lain against one of the marble columns that line the sides of the dance floor.

Hand gripping her wrist,Vegeta slips his other hand into his pocket. His face is a mask, but his eyes may as well have cartoon flames flickering in their dark depths. She's not going anywhere if he doesn't want her to.

"I believe you have something of mine."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

His gaze travels down and back up her body, thoroughly. "Looks like you're dressed for espionage."

"How I'm dressed isn't any of your business."

"Harsh words."

They are finally close again, close enough that, to anyone near, a man has a woman up against the wall, close enough to kiss.

She glares at him from under fiercely angled eyebrows. "Interesting fight last night?"

His eyes narrow. She got him. "It's shaping up to be a much more interesting day," he says, like he doesn't know what she's talking about. "Have an interesting chat with Roshi?"

"It doesn't concern you."

"If I'm the main topic of conversation, it does concern me. How did you know to head there?"

"A woman doesn't disclose her secrets."

"Hmm. And now you're at our old haunt." His voice lowers, lips twitching at the corner. "Miss me?"

"You wish. Now leave me alone. The mission is over."

Faint creases at the corner of his eyes crinkle as he assesses her. This isn't normal Bulma behavior. She is not flirting or lobbing insults back and forth with him for the pleasure of it. She is tidily shutting him down. Her voice is hard, her jaw set.

She can see the moment roll over him when he realizes she's upset with him. His hand falls from her wrist.

Now it's a more dangerous game.

He watches her carefully. "Who are you trying to convince that this is over? Me? Or yourself?"

"Hey, buddy," some guy with sunglasses on indoors has the gall to say to Vegeta. "Is there a problem here?" He's all long blonde hair, lean muscles and a narrow men's tank, and he doesn't hold a candle to Vegeta. Vegeta is just-crawled-out-of-the-pits-of-hell intimidating, one-foot-in-the-swamp that he crawled out of just because he likes it there. The guy must have a brain the size of a peanut.

Vegeta doesn't even look at him. He continues to stare at Bulma, because it's Bulma's move. She doesn't budge, but she recognizes the shift in power. Not that Muscles could bounce Vegeta from the Moonlight, but this is a distraction for Bulma to split, and, friends or not, she didn't think ChiChi would think too kindly of Vegeta hurting her paying customers. It's the perfect opportunity. Vegeta is watching her decide his fate. His face is a neutral appeal for reason. But she's just wild enough to throw a trap over him and glide out of the Moonlight, leaving him behind.

Vegeta senses it. "Call off your dog. Wouldn't want to get rid of me prematurely before I tell you everything I've found out."

Her eyes narrow. He's got her, and she knows it. "What does it matter anymore? We're over." Her eyes dash to Muscles. "This is over."

Vegeta levels her with all-consuming black eyes. "This isn't over, Bulma. You know it, I know it."

His words ring her like a bell. Information, the hard place inside her reminds her. That's the name of the game in this city. She just has to accept it. He is a fount of information.

She smiles at Muscles and rolls her eyes. "My husband invited his mother-in-law to live with us. I'm just pissed." Bulma's eyes crinkle with an artificially sweet smile. "That's all. Thank you."

Muscles regards Vegeta squinty-eyed behind his sunglasses. It's not subtle. "Okay. You let me know if you need anything else though." He pushes down his sunglasses and winks.

A woman and a man swing around Muscles. Crimped black hair teased high, the woman pops her gum around neon violet lipstick, glancing between her and Vegeta. "Oh, you two make such a cute couple!"

"We're not a couple," Bulma grumbles. "We're arch enemies."

"Then you available, beautiful?" The guy says, his own sunglasses perched on top his head.

"She just said she's married," Vegeta's voice rolls over them, annoyed.

"I don't have time for mother-in-laws right now," Bulma grits, and puffs up, fixing Vegeta with a laser-sharp stare. "I'm trying to bring down an evil villain."

Vegeta's own eyes sharpen, and they stare at each other tensely.

"Are you dangling the carrot in front of me, Ms. Briefs? I'm already on the hunt. There's no need to goad me to a chase. Why do you think I'm here?"

He was here for her. She takes a step back, and he takes a step forward. He won't let her get even a few centimeters farther away.

"Chase all you want," she argues. "Most men do."

His face flattens. "I'm not most men, we established that." His voice turns serious, and concern is etched around his eyes. "Where are you going, Bulma?"

"I don't owe you an answer. It's none of your business." She squares her jaw and backpedals.

Hands in his pockets, he circles with her, as if she leads him around on a string. "Wouldn't you know, it's exactly my business. What's wrong?" He asks grimly. His eyes search her, alert. "Bulma. Talk to me."

For a minute, she's startled. Vegeta looks concerned for her. _How can I help?_ His eyes say, as they glance over the room for danger.

 _"Talk_ to you? I would have appreciated if you'd _talked_ to me in the hotel room. What do you think is wrong?" She says through welded together teeth. "You disappointed me."

She's never seen Vegeta look so struck.

"Speechless, huh?" She swallows. "Because I figured you out?"

"What are you talking about," he asks carefully.

"You know what I'm talking about!"

"I don't know, _tell me!"_

"You know exactly what the dragon balls are," she hisses, drawing up close, baring her teeth in his face. "You've been playing me all along."

"I didn't know any more than you when you told me what your project really was. And what else do you _think_ you know?"

She catches the riddle. "How much more do you know _now_ that I don't?"

A resignation settles over his face, smoothing it, because she's pointed out his mistake. "Ah-hah!" She jabs her finger in the air, one foot behind the other, but he keeps the distance negligible between them, one step in front of the other as they make circles around each other and the marble column. "You've been stringing me along all this time. You never had any intention of helping me. You don't give a shit about me. You're just using me." Her voice strains, wounded. She can't help it.

"If that's what you've learned today," he argues, voice rough but eyes anxious, "then you're not a very good detective."

"Wow. Only you would jump on thin ice."

"You wouldn't have me any other way," he snarls back. "Bulma," he says, and it's the first time she feels like it's just him, the man, talking to her, the woman, with none of this bullshit between them. His face is drawn but his eyes plead. "Meet me upstairs in ten minutes. Third door on the right."

Face tightening, she comes to a standstill, a rejection poised on her lips.

"We need to talk."

"I've been begging you to tell me something, anything," she issues angrily. "Now you want to tease me? You can't buy me with information, Vegeta, no matter how much I want it. I won't be brought that low."

"I'm not trying to buy you, Bulma!" He balks, and for just a second, pain flashes across his face, as if...as if he can't stand being at odds with her. He is straight and solid in front of her, she could reach out and touch him, if she wanted. This ghost, haunting her, she could make alive again if she dared. "Please," the man who asks no one for anything says to her. The man who'd begged her to be his eyes and ears at the casino, but who told Tien he didn't do anyone favors. "Trust me just one more time. Second floor, third room on the right. Give me ten minutes."

He waits to secure her agreement, but she can tell he's on pins and needles. He asks; he doesn't take. She regards him with a mouth pulled taut with indecision.

She nods, quick, then looks away, swallowing.

He looks like he'd rather do anything else but leave her. He doesn't reach out and touch her again, though he wants to. Instead, he turns his body away to head toward the bar, toward Goku, maybe, until he's pushing in a straight line through the crowd and away.

Bulma's eyes water as she stares at the ceiling and then sighs, making her way toward the staircase, helpless to the strings men are pulling all around her.

. . .

It's been twenty minutes, and Vegeta still hasn't arrived. Bulma paces the room. She's regretting her concession now, letting him make a fool of her like this. She keeps telling herself not to give in to him. He knows he's her weakness. She's a smarter woman than this, except when her heart gets in the way, which is shaping up to be all the damned time.

It's not an office, but a sitting room, a lamp on in a corner, plush leather couches arranged around the center, bookcases lining the walls. It's a room reserved for friends and family, not for strangers pulled out of the crowd to be interrogated. Framed pictures line a darkened cabinet. She slows, eyes all over them, committing all of it to memory. Twenty five minutes past. She's twitchy with anger now.

There's a cabinet in the corner opposite of the lamp. Inside is the paraphernalia of someone's life, including a "Martial Arts Tournament" trophy. On the bottom shelf are photographs. In one she recognizes a younger version of Roshi, thick black hair but the same red sunglasses, a faded background of palm trees and ocean. There's another beside it that draws her eyes. It's in black and white, but she recognizes all the faces: Tien, leaned up against the hood of a car. Goku, smiling wide. Krillin with his hands on his hips, a smirk and sunglasses. Piccolo, straight backed and unamused. They're standing in front of an old car, outside a building which looks familiar but she can't place. And there, to the far right, Vegeta. He's not turned to the camera, but gives a side profile, arms cross over his chest, looking at the camera sidelong. He's too far away to be part of the group, but undeniably there for the same reason: a coordinated photo of the five of them. Her eyes linger over the photo a long time.

She only sees it because she picked up the photo frame. Its glow seems to make tiny sparks, as if she's unfocused her eyes, but as if it's only getting half-power. She would have never noticed it otherwise. She ceases to exist for a moment. Her heart and lungs stop working. Then her hand is closing around it, and her heart starts back up at a furious clip, beating a single chant: _MOVE, MOVE, MOVE._

Bulma tucks the four star ball into her inner coat pocket, zips it up, and hurries down the stairs.

. . .

Her home is quiet, save for the fuzz of the heat pushing through the vents. Past midnight, all her rooms are dark and she leaves them that way. She undresses, slips on her robe and fuzzy slippers. Pushing her gasses up her nose, she slips downstairs to her lab. The computer comes to life in the dark, searingly bright.

Bulma jumps around the Defense Department's encryption hurdles to the classified database. It's laughably easy.

Each and every crime boss she's met so far is filed by name. She types in Piccolo's name first to test her hypothesis.

There are multiple pictures of Piccolo, from different points in his life. His biography is long, and engrossed, her eyes fly over the page, absorbing it. At the end, in red, is "STATUS: Z."

It's here, at her fingertips: the answers.

She types in "Frieza."

The page blinks. The scroll bar shortens; the page is long. Bulma starts to read.

Her stomach hardens as she reads it, her empty stomach turning sour in her throat.

When she's done, she stares emptily at the wall, feeling like now would be a great time for a cigarette if she were a smoker. If this monster has her ball—and if Vegeta is aligned with him—her odds are very poor.

Her fingers hover over her keyboard, caught on a feeling. For a pregnant moment, she wonders if this moment right now will be a line marking "Before She Knew Vegeta's Secrets" and "After." But, like a stone rolling downhill, nothing can stop her momentum.

Bulma types Vegeta's name, and pushes _enter._

Before it can load, she's spun around in her chair.

And comes face to face with Vegeta, who bends down and smiles, showing teeth. "Hi."


End file.
